


Losing You

by Idreamofhazel



Series: Losing You [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Death, Crowley Being an Asshole, Established Relationship, F/M, Loss of Identity, Loss of Parent(s), Memory Loss, Mild Blood, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Reader-Insert, Romance, Season/Series 08, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-08-15 02:31:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8038984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idreamofhazel/pseuds/Idreamofhazel
Summary: Sam felt like the luckiest man alive. After months of searching, Dean finally came back from purgatory, and then just a short time later, he and Sam ran into you, a hunter who found her niche in banishing spirits. To say that you and Sam were head-over-heels in love was an understatement. So, when the Winchesters woke up one morning to find you missing, their world was shattered. Getting you back isn’t a simple search and rescue, though, and there’s a possibility you may not want to come back.





	1. The Dreams

Thumbing through yellowed book pages in a cozy library was one of your favorite pastimes, even when it involved tales of spirits and violent murders and the mundane details surrounding the plots. The thrill of tantalizing horror stories was a sweet addiction since childhood, one only fueled by your repeated encounters with ghosts and their tragic histories in your everyday life and then ending their distressing stories with a stroke of salt and flame. Your job was poetic in that way.

On this particular hazy afternoon, the story was of a man who had lost everything and quite literally. His entire house and family went up in flames because of unnecessary bigotry. Everything reduced to ashes, his spirit haunted the home now standing in place of what was once his. The kicker in this case was figuring out what his spirit was tied to, considering that he had lost everything. He died days after the fire, in an imaginably peaceful coma, lying in a hospital bed. His body was cremated.

So you cozied up for an afternoon of family records, locally-authored ghost stories, and a cinnamon dulce cappuccino from the library’s cafe, all to help you put the puzzle pieces of the case together. Your oversized sweater hung off one shoulder and your legging-clad legs were tucked underneath you in the sticky leather arm chair. Your hair was successfully finagled into a messy bun and the books were lazily scattered onto the floor around you. The atmosphere was positively prime for a period of uninterrupted studying.  
Hushed voices were not unheard of in the library, and usually they were ignorable, but the particular ones tapping on your eardrums presently were awfully close and slightly irritated. You wouldn’t have looked up except you realized they were coming from the sections where you had grabbed your books. You nudged your black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of your nose and surveyed the two men standing down the aisle.

They were both tall, but one was taller and, as if to accentuate his greater size, he had let his hair grow out to an unmentionable length that sat soft and flowing on his shoulders. He continued to scan the shelves while the other let his arms fall to his sides with a soft clap onto the leather jacket. He seemed to have given up on whatever they were searching for.  
The gloriously-maned one glanced in your direction and hadn’t really noticed you, but then his eyes fell to the books around you, piquing his interest. You dropped his gaze and returned to the home records in your lap. 

Slowly but surely, the two men inched their way down the row towards you. A glance up here or there revealed their movement and the taller one’s plan and the leather-jacketed man’s unawareness. Eventually they were close enough to read the titles on the book spines.

Without looking up this time, you heard a throat clearing and a hey-pay-attention elbow jab and an ow-what and then silence that could only be finger-pointing and slow realization.

“Excuse me, miss.”

The hazel eyes standing much closer to you now were like green, brown, and blue cherries atop a very tall, silky-haired sundae.

“Yes?” you whispered.

“I couldn’t help but notice that my brother and I came to the library to read the exact same set of books as you.” Sundae Man spoke kindly and with an air of know-how and innocent charisma.

You rested the book on your lap, the corner of your mouth twitching upwards, the movement reaching to the corner of your eyes. “I usually work alone, but sometimes I make exceptions. Y/N, Restless Spirit Specialist, at your service.” You extended a exaggerated, welcoming grin instead of a handshake as you were still seated and in an extremely comfortable position.

With an amused huff and a sunshine smile, the man of formalities extended his right hand to you. “Pleased to meet you, Y/N. I’m Sam and this is my brother, Dean.” 

***********************

“Based on the case file and everything that was recovered at the scene, we basically have nothing he could be tied to.” You sat in the Winchester’s filthy motel room figuring out the case with them. It wasn’t just dirty because it was a motel. Clothes were strewn on the floor, last night’s supper sat on the table, and an actual pair of boxers hung off the side of the dresser. Your hunch was that it was mostly the older brother’s belongings that weren’t in drawers or his bag.

Groaning and moaning, as you had learned was a usual behavior of Dean’s, he whined about the lack of leads in the case. “How are we supposed to ghostbuster this thing if we have nothing to burn?”

“We don’t burn, we banish,” you stated.

You had the attention of both men now. Sam took his eyes away from the case files and waited for you to continue.

“It’s possible his spirit is clinging to the actual land where his house was. I’ve heard of it before. And since we can’t burn up the plot, we have to get creative.”

“Is that even possible? To get a ghost to leave dirt?” Dean asked.

“I’ve never done this before, but I’ve read loads about it. There’s a few ways to do it. You can dump a crap ton of salt into the dirt, lace the land with iron, even set fire to the property, you know, like a cleansing wild fire, but we don’t really have those luxuries here.”

“So we use a spell.” Sam’s wheels were turning in his head and he followed your ideas closely.

“Exactly.” You nodded at him and warm smiles were exchanged. Sam’s eyes seemed to follow your every movement as you explained more of the what the job was going to entail. “Again, there’s more than one way to do this, but the easiest plan of action is for you two to get the current residents out of the house by posing as agents or workers of some kind, like gas company employees, and then I set up the spell and carry it out while you fight off the spirit who will most likely make an appearance or two to try to stop us. Piece of cake.”

Dean looked rather offended as he opened his mouth to speak. “This isn’t our first rodeo, sweetheart. We know-“

“That sounds like a great plan. When do we go?” Much to your surprise and amusement, kind and gentle Sam was able to stop Dean’s soapbox with just a glare.

“I’ll get the spell ready and you prepare your cover. We can go this evening.” You stood up and went to your bag, shuffling through the various contents to find what you needed for the spell. You never went on a case without your stash. As you searched, you couldn’t help but overhear the Winchester’s enthusiastic whispers.

“Are we seriously going to let this chick boss us around on this job?” Dean hissed.

“Dude, she’s not some chick. She’s wicked smart and knows what she’s doing. We would’ve been stuck on this case for days if we hadn’t bumped into her.”

“I think you’ve got a brain crush on this girl and it’s clouding your judgment. We don’t work with other hunters, other hunters don’t like us!”

“Clearly, she doesn’t mind us. Would you just play nicely? Please?”

Finding everything you needed, you dropped it all onto the table in front of Sam and Dean. Placing your hands on the edge of the table, you leaned over and looked straight at Dean, and said in the most matter-of-fact tone you could muster, “What’s a brain crush?”

Sam snorted and Dean froze. As was your intent, Dean became unable to form any coherent sentences and resolved himself to mumbling something about going out to his car and then leaving to do so.

Relaxing into your normal countenance, you looked to Sam and said, “Don’t worry about Dean. I’ve had to deal with real jerks before. You guys aren’t the first hunters I’ve ran into.”

The thing about Sam right in that moment was that he clearly looked impressed, amused at someone putting his brother in his place, and smitten even, if you wanted to believe such ideas, but he didn’t voice a response, but instead resolved to nod and look overly pleased with the entire interaction that had just taken place. You stood there and he sat, locking the gaze until Dean entered the room again, having walked off his embarrassment and regained his bearings.

***********************

Sitting on Sam’s lap while lounging around in the bunker had become another one of your treasured hobbies. Wrapped up in his plaid-clothed arms afforded you a sense of safety and familiarity in the ever-changing whirlwind that was now your life. Hunting with Sam and Dean was incomparable to your previous job description. There was a whole lot of nasty living out in the world. Your specialization in spirits was just the tip of the iceberg, but Sam and Dean were no Titanic. You hadn’t brought yourself to stabbing silver knives into flesh and blood yet, but you weren’t a stranger to researching or patching the boys up after a job.

“You know, I almost feel like all my injuries are already healed, thanks to your amazing baking abilities and your beautiful face,” Sam cooed, probably a little woozy from the pain meds you gave him.

Sam was resting on a couch and you were resting on him, one arm around his neck and the other laying on your own lap, clasping a plate of warm cinnamon bread. The homey, comforting scent filled the bunker. Your legs were tucked under you much like they were most times you sat down to rest.

You giggled at Sam, a regular reaction to his many sweet lines. “I’d like to think that’s because of my impeccable first aid skills.”

You took another bite of the iced baked good. Warm, cinnamon anything never became old to you. Whether it was in food, Coffee, or candles, the scent was as much a part of you as were your spirit-hunting skills. Sam laughed and you scrunched your nose.

“What?”

“You’ve got a little- here.” He reached up and gently swiped at the tip of your nose, bringing his finger back to show you the dab of icing that had so conveniently stuck there. You quickly rubbed your nose with your palm, trying to rid yourself of any more embarrassing food on your face.

“Mmm, just as good off your nose!”

You stopped rubbing long enough to see that Sam had licked the icing right off his finger.

“I can’t believe you just ate that off my nose.”

“What? It’s not like it was _in_ your nose.” Sam’s voice had a slight draw to it, which strung the ending sounds of his words together like a messy, gluey kid’s craft.

“Ok, I think it’s time for you to go to bed.” You sat the plate on the table next to the couch and made to get up, but Sam pulled you back down.

You squealed in pleasant surprise and he whispered in your ear, “Only if you go with me.”

Red warmth spread in your cheeks and you struggled to get yourself out of the odd position you were now in. Your back was more to Sam since he had pulled you straight down towards him.

“That’s the meds talking for sure. All the more reason for you to sleep that off.”

“No, no. They only let me say what I’m thinking anyway.”

You paused your struggle and twisted to look him straight in the eyes, gauging the sincerity of his response. Relationships happened in steps and spurts, never really all at once, and so you wondered which step this was.

For someone who spent so much time reading, your mind-vault of words felt robbed in this moment. Sam pushed a strand of hair behind your ear that had fallen over your cheek during your struggle and then he allowed his fingers to linger over your cheek, slowly spreading his hand out over the side of your face. And in a moment of courage and of-course-this-feels-right, he leaned in and let his lips touch yours for the first time, softly and tentatively at first, then hungry and completely when you returned the gesture.

He breathed out words somehow between the full-mouth kisses. “Mmm, just like I imagined. So warm and soft and cinnamony.”

You pulled back, sweetly shocked, just enough so you could speak, though out of breath. “I doubt I always taste like cinnamon, but you’ve imagined this?”

“Of course.”

And he sealed the conversation off with more kisses, his passionate love rendering you unable to speak or think or consider anything other than being with Sam Winchester for as long as either of you could manage.

***********************

Flour dusted the kitchen counters and the tops of your shoes and the front of your apron. You were a fantastic baker, but you never lied and said you weren’t messy. Your personal favorite indie playlist was filling the air in the kitchen, keeping Dean at bay while you made his favorite dessert, along with the smell of apple pie with extra cinnamon. As you scooped excess flour into a pile for clean up, you jumped as hands floated around your waist.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” a familiar smooth voice hummed in your ear.

"It’s ok. I was just very focused on these pies.” You leaned backwards into Sam and he bent down to plant a kiss on your cheek.

“You know, I absolutely love it when I get that first scent of something you’re baking.”

“That’s funny coming from a health food fanatic. I really only bake these for myself and Dean,” you teased. Some time during this conversation you and Sam had begun swaying to the music.

“I can cheat everyone once in awhile! Especially if it’s with something you’ve made.”

“Well, help me clean this mess and then we’ll check on those pies and see about letting you have a cheat day.”

Sam turned you around in his arms and smirked at your flour-dusted appearance. He kissed you chastely on the lips.

“Ok,” he agreed, “Let’s get started.”

—————————————----------------------------------------—————————————————

Waking up to a headache was a regular occurrence that started just three months ago. Nothing you thought of could have triggered them. No dietary changes, no other health problems, and your alcohol intake was still next to zero. The only noticeable change was the vivid dreams.

Sometimes the dreams were more like nightmares, or simply just nightmares. Others were warm and pleasant, like the ones you were currently trying to piece together. They always left you with that sense of longing, though, the kind after you’ve left a particularly engaging dream that seemed so real. You wanted to go back, but it was time for work and Mandy, your roommate, would get you up if you slept in too late.

You stretched your arms up over your head, yawning and wishing you could sink back under the covers in your icy cold bedroom. Mandy aways kept the thermostat so low, and understandably so, since the Arizona summer heat was a killer, but one or two degrees higher would’ve been nice. You sat up and mentally prepared yourself to get out of bed and brace the frigid room. Mandy had lived in this house before you and so the decor was more in her taste than yours. Modern and sleek, the inside was not what you would expect for a Arizona desert home.

Rolling out of bed, you quickly put on your office attire—pressed black slacks and a crisp white button-up, sleeves rolled up neatly to your elbows—and brushed your hair into a smoothed bun. You did your makeup quickly and then made your debut of the morning, heading to the kitchen for some breakfast. Mandy was already ready, and probably had been for some time, as she popped a couple english muffins out of the toaster and put one on a plate for you, setting it down on the black granite island.

“You know, it wouldn’t kill us to change up this breakfast routine,” you said as you slid into a seat at the bar. “We could get some cinnamon twist donuts or something.”

Mandy scrunched her nose in disgust, spreading some low-fat butter onto her own muffin. “Donuts are so fatty. And not to mention that much sugar is horrible for you. You don’t really want to eat that, do you?”

Cocking your head and giving her a smirk, you humored her for the moment. Mandy worried far too much about what she ate, far more than you did. “I guess not.”

A sudden ache surged through your head again, making you pinch your forehead.

“You ok, Y/N?” Mandy asked.

You strained to keep your voice level through the pain. “Yeah, just those headaches again.”

“Are you having more of those dreams?” Mandy moved around the counter to place a hand on your shoulder.

“Yeah. You don’t think they could be related, do you?”

“I don’t know. Have you tried what I suggested, to help you get rid of them?”

“Yeah, but it’s not helping much. They’re just so real. They feel almost like memories.”

Mandy laughed playfully at your suggestion and walked away to grab her coffee mug. “They’re just dreams. I promise. But hey, I have to head out or I’ll be late. I’ll see you later!”

Mandy walked out the door, leaving you alone with your headache and unshakeable sense that the dreams were something more. It shocked even you that you would entertain those types of thoughts, but the fact that they always involved that same two men, and sometimes a recurring family, which you couldn’t place in your memory either, was enough evidence to at least suggest that there was a possibility that they involved real-life events. However, the kicker was that you didn’t even know the names of those men, let alone where you would have met them. No place in your dreams was somewhere you remembered and the nightmares, those were too wild and mythological to be accurate representations of reality. For the past three months, ever since the dreams began, you had felt like you were in limbo between real reality and possible reality. At the very least, they were frustrating because they nagged harshly at your emotions and you often woke up scared, exhilarated, or feeling in love, but if you were honest with yourself, they also left you feeling crazy and it took everything you had not to believe that you were going down that road permanently.

Leaving your plain muffin on the cold counter along with your worries, you hopped down from the chair and left for your job at the accounting office, hoping this morning was no indication of how the rest of the day would be.


	2. The Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean are relentlessly searching for you. While tracing over your steps, they get an unexpected visitor that gives them nerve-wracking information.

Without you laying snuggled into his side every night, without him waking up to the feel and smell of your vanilla sugar shampooed hair tickling his nose, without seeing your studious figure nestled in over-sized clothes, copying down strictly organized notes into the late hours of the night, and without your presence furnishing the bunker with a homey glow and the scent of fresh roasted coffee beans and cinnamon baked goods, Sam was hollow and bunker was just a bunker again. There was a void inside him he didn’t know had existed before he met you and that had certainly grown larger and deeper since you disappeared.

He didn’t sleep as long anymore. He had lost a comfort he was only just beginning to become acquainted with. His thoughts and worries about you agonized him and riddled his dreams, preventing them from being anything pleasant. As the days drew on, his hope that you would be found safe and sound dwindled. Three months was a long time to go missing for a hunter. Part of him hoped that you simply had enough of gruesome hunting and couldn’t take it anymore. He hoped to find you happy, even if it meant that was doing something other than being with him. But he wouldn’t stop searching until he was absolutely certain of what happened to you.

On this particular cold morning, Sam was slumped over a library table, still wearing clothes from three days ago and drooling on a lore book about creatures that could make people vanish. Dean woke up much earlier than was normal for him, your absence leaving its own painful mark on him as well and preventing him from getting any decent sleep, and he walked into the library and saw Sam asleep in an uncomfortable position.

Dean wasn’t just hurt for Sam, he was hurt for himself. Your quick wit and homemaking skills were something to behold. He was able to eat pies to his heart’s content with you around and there was often a series of playful banter between the two of you for no particular reason other than fun and bragging rights. And then there were your own hunting abilities. If anyone could wrangle with spirits and death, it was you. You were the best of the best and your first introduction to the brothers was accurate. “Spirit specialist” was what you called yourself and it wasn’t just a fancy name on a business card.

Dean found it hard to keep up with you, whether it was casual conversation or case-deciphering, and he could see why Sam followed you around like an enamored puppy, completely immersed in everything that was you. Even if Dean had hated you, which was absolutely impossible, he would go to the ends of the earth to get you back because of the your place in Sam’s life. When they both woke up on the day you went missing, it cut them both right through the heart when they put two and two together and realized you were gone. Dean threw some punches at inanimate objects a few days later. Sam became robotic, focused only on finding you.

They bounced around theories and pieced together your last couple of weeks with them, trying to find even a scrap of evidence of your whereabouts. Your car being gone threw a wrench in some of their theories, such as the one it looked like Sam was working on last night.

Dean rubbed his sleepy, scruffy face and went to wake Sam up. As much as he needed sleep, Dean didn’t want him thinking he had wasted valuable time. Sam woke up slowly, sleep still begging for catch-up time, and he look around at the messy table underneath him, gradually gaining his bearings and remembering what he was working on.

“You know, she couldn’t have been taken by one of those creatures. The bunker’s warded against everything. How could it have gotten in?” Dean stood over Sam, watching him refocus again on his late-night notes. He wanted the answer to be as simple as a monster, but false hope was no hope.

“Nothing makes any sense. Why would she just leave without a note or a text or something?” Sam spoke to the paper beneath his elbows, venting his frustrations at the enigma of this case.

Dean moved closer to the table, mulling over what he was about to say. If Sam hadn’t figured this out by now, Dean had to pitch the idea himself. It was the only thing that made sense. “Sam,” he began slowly, “you remember how she started going off on her own more, not too long before she disappeared?”

Sam continued looking over those useless books, as if those words could distract him from Dean’s. “Yes. I’m aware.”

“She said they were simple hunts for old friends, people she had helped, things she could take care of her own. What if-”

“Look, I don’t care why she left. I just want to know whether she’s ok or not.”

“Sam, I’m not saying she left _you_ , ok? I know that’s what you’ve been thinking and I can’t believe that’s what happened and neither can you. It just doesn’t fit.”

Dean hit the nail on the head with that one. What nagged at Sam most, other than the chance that you may not be ok, was that your relationship with him had faded and so you spent less time with him and more time on your own. He hadn’t thought anything of your excursions until you left and hadn’t come back.

“Anything’s possible.”

“That’s not where I was going with this. What I’m trying to say is that maybe she got in over her head with a case.”

Sam didn’t know what would feel worse or how he would handle either situation. Either you didn’t love him anymore or you were in danger, or possibly dead. While Dean had a point, the details still didn’t add up. You had told them every single time you took your own job, but before this last one, you never said a word to either Winchester. There was something deeper going on that Sam couldn’t place a finger on. Out of all the options, though, he hoped that if he couldn’t find you and bring you back safe, that you were gone because you didn’t love him anymore.

Sam slammed his books shut and began setting them back on the shelves while Dean watched and waited for his brother’s response.

“The last case she told me about was in Kansas City, Missouri.”

“Ok, let’s start there. We’ll check for cases and see if anything weird was going on. But you should, you know, shower first. Change your clothes. Give yourself a breather so your head’s clear.”

Sam’s affirmation was his walking to his room instead of sitting down to open his laptop and begin the search. Dean himself fell into a chair after Sam left the library. This whole ordeal was difficult on both of them, but getting Sammy back to normal was an extra weight on Dean’s shoulders that he struggled to carry while dealing with his own pain. He almost prayed to God that this wasn’t a dead-end idea.

Sam didn’t like staying in his room much anymore. It was strange because when he first had the space to himself, he didn’t care to use it for anything other than sleeping. He avoided it for completely unrelated reasons now. As he stepped into the empty-of-you room and closed the door behind him, his eyes landed on all the things he didn’t want to forget, but couldn’t bring himself to think about without causing more pain.

There were the candid pictures of Sam and you, carefully placed into dollar store frames and protected like studio portraits. There was the patterned fleece blanket and matching pillow case on your side of the bed because, while you had talked about getting a bed set that belonged to the both of you, it hadn’t been bought yet. And the fiction book you had been reading during down time was still sitting on your bedside table, collecting dust now. All these little touches of you and the countless other ones scattered throughout the room brought stinging tears to Sam’s eyes. His room had finally felt like his own space, a safe place, and somehow your being there and filling it with your own personal touches had done that for him. But the pictures weren’t admired anymore, the blanket wasn’t cuddled and wrapped around you, and the pages of the book weren’t being turned by your fingers.

Sam took the nearest pair of clean jeans from the laundry pile on the chair. You would have a fit if you saw the mess of laundry he had let grow. He almost grabbed one of his usual shirts hanging in the closet, but he saw a t-shirt out of the corner of his eye tucked neatly into a drawer he hadn’t been bothered to shut. The shirt was never anything special to Sam, but whenever it was clean, you wore it alone as pajamas for multiple nights at a time, claiming it was the softest and most comfortable of all Sam’s t-shirts. It had essentially become your property and Sam gladly let you claim it because walking into the bedroom and finding you asleep on the bed with just a t-shirt and panties on was one of the most beautiful sites Sam had the fortune of experiencing. Right now, he didn’t know whether to leave it be in the drawer as you had left it or to wear it because it was something he had left of you he could keep with him throughout the day. After a standstill with his thoughts, he walked away from the closet, took the shirt out of the drawer, and went to shower.  
When Sam walked back into the library, Dean was sitting at a table thumbing through news articles on his phone.

“Have you found anything?” Sam asked as he sat down and opened his own laptop to join the search.

“Nothing promising,” Dean sighed. “You’ll probably have better luck than me. You’re better at all that computer stuff anyway, right?” Dean looked up with a smile, but was met with more of the same. Sam continued to work impassively at his computer, effectively ignoring Dean’s remarks.

“She only ever went after spirits on her own, so that’s what I’m focusing on.”

“Yeah, good idea.”

Their search proved to be futile, as nothing suggesting hauntings came up in the area of Kansas City around the time you went missing. They had been searching for a couple hours.

“This doesn’t make any SENSE!” Sam yelled and slammed his fist on the table, startling Dean so much he dropped his phone on the table.

He looked up a Sam who stared blankly at the laptop screen. “Look, I know what it’s like to have pent up anger, but you’ve got to-” The glare from Sam was enough to make Dean stop trying to relate. Movement was needed for this situation and for both of their sanity. “Ok, we’re going to Kansas City. Now. We’ll ask around, see if anyone saw her. Go grab a picture of her or something.”

Sam slammed the laptop shut and took it with him as he went to pack. Dean ran his fingers through his hair as he mentally prepared himself for whatever they might find on this trip. It didn’t really matter whether they found information that led them to you or if they found zilch. Unless they waltzed in on you sitting in a motel room, perfectly fine and alive, and saying, “Hey guys, what took you so long? You didn’t get my calls?” any news was going to be bad news until they did find you.

Sam opened the drawer on your bedside table where you kept your chapstick, bookmarks, and family photos. He pulled out the stack of worn photos and sifted through them. You experienced a healthy childhood, living in the suburbs of St. Louis with your parents and younger sister. You didn’t pull out these pictures of your past very often, but Sam knew which one he hoped to find amongst the ones of your parents and sister whose lives had ended far too soon. And he found it, the one candid picture he had actually managed to take of you and the only one that showed what you looked like now. Despite how much you had complained and claimed that you didn’t like it, you never threw it away. You just “hid” it so Sam couldn’t put it in one of those frames you used for all the other pictures. Sam tucked the picture in his jacket pocket and packed.

The drive was quiet. Playing his favorite albums didn’t seem polite to Dean right now, so he just let the radio play softly in the background of the tires on the road. Four grueling hours later, they pulled into a motel right outside the city and paid for a couple nights. They entered the room, dropped their bags on the ground, and pulled out their suits. They still had daylight to burn and no time they wanted to waste.

They started with police stations, posing as FBI agents and hitting up as many as they could before it got too late. Just like the internet search, the sweep across stations yielded nothing. No one they talked to could remember any FBI agent looking like you having come in anytime in the past four months. Most of the units hadn’t even had any FBI agents in the office for months that they could remember. Dean had to pull Sam away from the search because he would’ve gone all night, to every single station, office, morgue, or hospital that you could’ve visited without stopping. The only way Dean was able to get Sam to let up for the night was to promise they wouldn’t leave the city until they had looked everywhere they could.

They returned to the room and Dean ordered a pizza, not expecting Sam to eat much, and even though it seemed almost sacrilegious at the moment, he turned on a movie and sat down on the bed. There wasn’t anything else to do until morning.

All was quiet until their door swung open with a force that slammed it against the wall. Sam and Dean pulled out their guns and turned in one swift motion, finding a leather-clad twenty-something standing in their room.

“I have a message from the boss downstairs,” the man sneered and his eyes flashed black for a split second, which was long enough for the Winchesters to react. They moved, but were flung against the cheap furniture before they could pull a trigger. “Hey guys, I didn’t come to fight.” The demon put his hands up in mock surrender.

“I don’t care why you came,” Sam spat, “We aren’t in the mood to hear your crap.”

“Oooh, but I would be if I were you, Sammykins. Is that what your girlfriend used to call you?” He bared his teeth as if he were cringing, “I hope not.”

“Where is she?” Sam bellowed.

“Shhh! You don’t want the neighbors to hear this little domestic disturbance. I actually don’t know where she is. I’m just a messenger.”

“A messenger for who?” Sam growled.

“Crowley. You know, the King of Hell. Who else would a demon be a messenger for, Einstein?”

By now, Dean had had enough of this smart aleck. “What’s the message, paper boy?”

The black eyes fixated on Sam. In a bone-chilling tone, he revealed the reason he was there. “Crowley wants the two of you to stop your little search party.” The boys scoffed and the demon forced them to look at him, an almost choking feeling squeezing their jaws. “He’s serious. Y/N is fine actually, maybe not exactly…intact as you remember her, but she’s alive and will remain so unless you decide to be idiots and go after her. You need to watch your steps, get off her trail, and let her be.”

“Not a chance in hell that I would _ever_ stop looking for her, so you can take your message and shove it up your-”

“Silence!” the demon boomed. “Suit yourselves, but this is a sticky path you’ll be choosing to go down. Y/N got herself into this mess and I would advise you not to do the same, but it doesn’t seem as if my words are getting through your incredibly thick skulls. My advice would be to pay a little more attention to your girl, but it seems as if it’s a little too late for that, now doesn’t it?”

Dean sat still, listening to the demon’s words, waiting for clues that could lead them to you, but Sam was struggling as if he were in physical bonds, grunting and yanking and pulling. “I’m going to hunt you down and slit your scrawny throat after you tell me what happened to her!”

“Aha, I’m actually embarrassed for you right now. You can’t get out of this and you won’t be hunting me down. Good luck with ruining your lives.” And the demon was gone.  
Sam leapt up and sprinted out the door.

“Sam!” Dean ran after him, finding him turning circles in the parking lot.

“He’s gone.” Sam turned to Dean, tear streaks on his cheeks shining under the lamps and his fists balled at his sides.  
“We need to get back to the bunker, Sam.”

“What? Why? Did you not hear him? He knows where Y/N is. Crowley knows where Y/N is.”

“And she was doing something he didn’t like. We missed something in the bunker. She wasn’t going on hunts, Sam, she was doing something else. You heard what that demon said, about paying more attention to her. If she left a trace of anything that she was doing, it would be at the bunker.”

Dean watched as the truth sunk into Sam and broke him down. “What could she have been doing?” His voice was weak, barely above a whisper.

“I don’t know, Sam. I—,” Dean choked on his words. “I don’t know.”


	3. The Roomate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your dreams suddenly worsen and you are left with a blizzard of emotions and physical pain. Mandy tries to help, but she has concerns of her own at the moment.

You departed from the office today feeling drained and frazzled. It seemed as if your boss had you running every errand and performing every small task for the higher-ups that he could find and some that he seemed to pull out of thin air. Playing secretary at an accounting firm was never what you wanted as a career. It wasn’t satisfying, it didn’t challenge you, and sometimes the sexism was unbelievable. Despite your many protests and displays of hard work, you were just the girl who made coffee and typed documents. Your current job paid the bills, though, and did so quite well. But whenever you allowed yourself indulge in some harmless imagination, daydreaming about giving your boss the ol’ one-two and hightailing it out of there, for some unplaceable reason, spending your days kneading dough and creating pastries sounded like heaven to you. Honestly though, you couldn’t remember a time in your life when you baked.

You came home to an empty, solitary house. Mandy was staying at work late for a meeting, which wasn’t unusual for her. She was somewhat of a workaholic, although she would deny it. She always had been, ever since the two of you met through mutual friends, and no amount of protesting from you ever got her to relax.

You shivered as you entered through the door. There was no telling when your roommate would return, so you went to the thermostat on the wall and pushed the little up arrow a couple times. If you had any luck at all, maybe Mandy wouldn’t even notice the difference and you could stop dying of low temperatures for a few hours.

Having some time to yourself, you tossed your bag into an armchair and then walked into the kitchen, absentmindedly perusing the fridge for a snack. Nothing about the contents were strange or unfamiliar, but suddenly your brain went into hyperdrive, shifting your awareness, as if gears that had been still for an unknowable amount of time began moving for a seemingly random reason, and the items on the shelves struck you as odd. Nothing looked appealing or right. It wasn’t that you were indecisive about what to eat–absolutely nothing inside your fridge even felt like something you _would_ eat. But that didn’t make sense and you didn’t stick around pondering the contents of the fridge to see just why you were feeling so out of place suddenly. What you were staring at is what you’ve been accustomed to for the past year now, since you moved in with Mandy. Maybe you were having some sort of quarter-life crisis with the way you were being treated at work and your mind was begging for some sort of shift in your routine.

That answer wasn’t at all satisfying, but you couldn’t manage the effort to figure out another solution at the moment, so you chalked the uncomfortable, unfamiliar feeling up to just that, or at least you tried to convince yourself it was just that. You left the kitchen, returning to the living room and collapsing onto the couch, pushing your heels off with your toes and relishing in the rush of cool air that flowed over your hot feet. If nothing sounded good to eat, a short nap would do just fine to take up time until Mandy came home. With the grueling day you had, it wasn’t long before you drifted off to sleep.

*******************

_You were stalking down a long corridor in heavy boots, all dusty and musty and littered with leaves and trash. The stale smell of moldy drywall and stagnant formaldehyde was in the air and the hair on your arms was standing erect, goosebumps prickling your skin. Two men followed closely behind you in a planned and practiced march. You each had shot guns loaded with rock salt in hand, ready to fire should any of the spirits make an appearance._

_Passing by rusted cots and wheelchairs, shriveled IV bags and bulky, ancient equipment, you finally reached the lab room of the old hospital where gut wrenching experiments had taken place. If any spirits were going to show up, now would be the time and this room would be the place._

_“Stay close. Don’t wander off,” you said to the men at your back. They didn’t argue and you began scouring every hiding space, every cabinet, and every nook and cranny of the room for the remains of the last patient who was ever harmed in this lab._

_Just as your fingers were about to curl around the rusty handle of an in-wall cabinet, you heard shots being fired from one of the weapons behind you. Without hesitation, you jerked the cabinet open and there laid a barely-recognizable, very-decayed human body, stuffed and hidden among rusty tools and broken bottles of medicine._

_Before the ghost could get the better of you, you stripped off your jacket and used it to pull the fragile and most likely disease-ridden body out. It was time for a salt and burn. You sprinkled the salt, squirted some gas, and lifted the match. The hot flame flickered, but cold, clammy hands smacked your back, sending you tumbling forward into…_

_The closet of your childhood bedroom._

_“Mommy! Daddy! No!” An innocent, screeching, desperate voice carried down the hall and into the dark space where you were tucked safely away._

_You heard more muffled screams coming from your little sister’s room as you hid in your small closet. You sat in the dark, surrounded by hanging clothes and shoes as you shuddered and spat and cried, your legs squeezed against your chest as tight as you could get them. This is what mommy and daddy always told you to do if a bad guy ever came in your house. Run and hide. Don’t make any noise. Wait for mommy or daddy to come get you. Except something was wrong, terribly terribly wrong. Everything went quiet and no one was coming to get you. You didn’t move. You were supposed to wait for someone to come get you._

_You shook violently when you heard a door crash down somewhere in the house and you felt fresh tears pooling out of your eyes. Footsteps stomped up the stairs and things crashed into walls and furniture. Lots of things were breaking. You tucked your head into your knees, just wanting this all to be over._

_When the crashing stopped, two new voices began talking down the hall. One sounded like a woman, but it wasn’t your mother. From what you could hear, they seemed to be checking every room in the hall, opening and shutting the doors as they took the time to look in each room, and soon one of the new strangers made it into your bedroom.  
The light came on, peering through the crack underneath the closet door, and you held your breath, your frame going rigid._

_“Is there somebody in here?” a soothing voice cooed. “It’s ok honey, I’m not going to hurt you. I want to help you.”_

_You sniffled and the woman must have heard you because the closet door opened before you could grab the knob. A young woman appeared before you, crouching down. Her voice didn’t match her appearance. Blood speckled her face and a gun sat in a holster on her thigh. You scooted further back into the closet._

_“Shhh,” she whispered. “I know I look scary, but I’m here to help. See this?” She gestured to her gun. “This just helps me get the bad guys.” She began wiping her face with the sleeve of her jacket. “There. Now I look more normal.” She smiled._

_The woman was very beautiful, even with her dark hair in a falling-down ponytail and stains on her rugged clothing. You were so scared, but you didn’t think someone this nice and pretty could be a bad guy, so you crawled out of the closet._

_“There, good. Come here.” The woman reached out her hands and picked you up. You clung to her, your head nestling into her shoulder._

_She left your room and walked through the hallway where you lifted your head to see another person, a man dressed similar to the woman, coming out of your little sister’s bedroom. He shook his head at the woman._

_She tried to hold your head down as you walked past your sister’s bedroom door to the stairs, but she couldn’t stop you from seeing inside as you passed the open door. Your little sister was lying on the floor, facedown, still and quiet._

_You screamed._

*******************

You awoke with a gasp and a lurch forward as your heart pounded loudly in your ears. You were crying, but you didn’t know why. You looked around the living room, grasping the couch with your arms stretched wide like you had grabbed the cushions for dear life. Everything was dark. You had been asleep much longer than planned and Mandy was still not home. The silence in the house sat heavy on your ears as you tried to gain your bearings. No dream had been as vivid as the one you just had. You couldn’t shake the image of that little girl, whoever she was, lying so motionless on the floor. What a terrible nightmare to have and it had shaken you to your core.

As you breathed deeply to calm down, telling yourself in and out, in and out, you slowly returned to reality and thought clearly enough to get up and find your phone in your purse. Hopefully, Mandy could come home soon if you called her. You needed to talk to someone, anyone, to get your hands to stop shaking, to help you get back to reality. You wanted the sick feeling churning in your stomach to just stop. You almost cried again, thinking about how utterly frustrated you were that you seemed to have no control over your dreams and emotions lately. There had to be something you could to stop all of it and you hoped Mandy would be able to come home soon with an answer. It was unusual for her to be out this late without calling anyway.

********************

“Like I told you, some issues are to be expected. No spell is foolproof,” Mandy seethed as she stood before Crowley, defending herself like a chastised child. His ruthless berating was grating on her nerves. Memories weren’t supposed to be seeping through the subconscious as dreams, but it was a complication that could be fixed. There was no need to bring down the hammer.

“Repetitive dreams about her past are not what I would call ‘expected issues.’ If this spell doesn’t hold, there will be dire consequences, dear.” Crowley sat stately upon his throne, a smug air around his clasped hands and crossed legs. Two demons stood as statues on either side, watching and waiting, probably hoping the witch would do something rash so they could have some fun. “Oh, and there’s one more thing you should know.”

Mandy’s eyebrows rose and Crowley smirked at her concerned face.

“The Winchesters are looking for her and got awfully close to the location of her last task. So you should be watching out for them as well, just in case.”

Crowley was clearly enjoying the anxiety coursing through Mandy’s veins, but she did her best to remain cool and in charge of her emotions. “And how much do they know?” she said through her teeth.

“That,” Crowley punctuated, “is for me to know and you to mind your own business about.”

“I would be a lot more prepared if I knew what I might be up against.” Mandy was starting to second guess her choice to work with the King of Hell in this moment. There may have been benefits to the arrangement, like the promotion she just received at work, but it wasn’t worth all this trouble if she was killed by a couple of grunting hunters.

“Be prepared for the worst and you’ll be prepared for everything,” he sneered.

She realized she wasn’t going to draw anymore information out of the man and she didn’t exactly feel like being murdered and replaced today, so she dropped that subject, but she wasn’t done yet with her visit yet. It was her turn to bring up her own problems with the operation. Crowley wasn’t the only impatient one.

“How much longer do I have to pull this charade off? Parading around like her best friend? Honestly, this girl gets on my nerves. She’s always wanting to decorate my house with frilly crap and put scented candles everywhere. How did she even survive as a hunter? She’s too _soft_.”

Crowley chuckled, which set Mandy’s already simmering blood into a rolling boil. When this was done, she would be glad to get rid of you and Crowley, both of you thorns in her side. She was definitely regretting her decision to help him now, but he had promised her power she couldn’t resist if she performed as desired. He had also convinced her that keeping you out of commission helped her in the long run, too, which she didn’t fully understand, but had trusted Crowley to know what he was talking about. A little bit of trust both ways would be nice, though.

“I don’t think you want to find out exactly how skilled she was. Which is why it’s imperative that she stop having these dreams and get on with her life. Neither of us can afford to have her back in the game. Ever.”

“Yes, I know, but how long-”

“Patience is a virtue, remember that.”

Before Mandy could say something she’d regret, her phone rang, sending uncomfortable, echoing rings throughout the stony throne room.

“It’s her,” Mandy groaned. Crowley looked at her as if to say _go on, answer it, I’m waiting._ Shifting her tone to friendly and sweet in the blink of an eye, she answered the phone. “Hey! What’s up? Wait, what? Is everything ok? Mhm. Oh, that sounds terrible. I’ll be home soon, though. Just take some deep breaths. Ok, see you soon.”

“Something the matter with your new best friend?” Crowley smiled, waiting for Mandy to crack under pressure and admit her spell was failing, but she gave him no such pleasure.

Mandy wanted to shoot a glare in his direction, had she not been afraid of his impatience with her magic and his callous disregard for anyone’s life but his, so she decided against that. “Nothing I can’t handle,” she grunted.

“That’s my witch. Now, go on. I’ll call you if anything of importance comes up.”

_Anything of importance_ , Mandy guessed, meaning that the Winchesters were already knocking on her door, guns at the ready. She turned to leave, but stopped as Crowley mentioned one more thing. “And Mandy, if the dreams get worse, bring her to me.”

She nodded and left Crowley’s dungeon-esque hall, feeling like she wasn’t able to escape quickly enough, but dreading having to deal with your personal problems yet again.

********************

You remained on the couch, tucked into the corner with your legs underneath you, leaning your head on the armrest as you steadied your breathing and waited for Mandy in the dark. Pain seared through your head as the images of the young girl popped up repeatedly in your mind. What was going on with your brain to make such terrible scenes play out in your sleep? And why were they giving you such awful headaches?

You heard the locks on the front door click and slide and you looked up, seeing Mandy walk in, her gaze landing immediately on you.

“What are you doing in the dark, dear?” Mandy flipped on a light and came to sit beside you, placing a hand on your back.

“I’m having the worst headache,” you moaned. “It has to be related to those dreams. They always happen together.”

“Can you tell me about the dreams? Maybe it will help you differentiate between them and reality. I know you’ve been struggling with that.”

You sat up straighter and sighed. “Maybe. If anything, I might be able to get these horrible images out of my head,” you began. “I think it was two dreams. I remember being in some old building, walking around with two men and we all had guns. We were looking for something and I think it was this body. I found it in a cabinet. It was… horrifying. Then something pushed me and the next thing I know, I’m hiding in a closet, scared out of my kind. I felt small, like I was a child again. A woman comes and finds me and as she takes me through the house, I see a dead little girl just lying on the floor in a room. It was terrible. I woke up crying.”

Mandy rubbed your arm as she tried to comfort you. “Oh honey, that does sound awful. But none of its real. They’re just nightmares.”

“I’ve never had nightmares this strong before. Why are they affecting my emotions so much? God, I feel like I’m going crazy.” Your head fell into your hands and you fought back tears again.

Mandy’s hand dropped from your shoulder. “It doesn’t matter why they’re so strong, all that matters is that you stop worrying about them. It’s not going to do you any good. Now, I’m going to fix us something to eat and I want you to find something on tv to watch to take your mind off all of this. Then I’m going to call a friend who you can talk to about the dreams. We’ll go see him tomorrow. You should take off work.”

Mandy was always strong willed when it came to these situations and, if your head hadn’t been aching so badly, you may have protested, but instead you just nodded and told her that you probably would've taken off work tomorrow anyway. Even though she could be a bit too harsh, really she just cared about you and hated to see you like this. She wasn’t the most nurturing person, but she only wanted to help. So you obliged her requests and turned on the television, settling on a romantic comedy that you’d never seen before, and waited for dinner.

Mandy walked down the hall towards her bedroom and caught a glimpse of the thermostat on the wall sitting at two degrees higher than where she wanted it. She opened her mouth to remind you not to mess with it, but promptly shut it when she remembered she had bigger problems to wrestle with at the moment. She slipped into her room instead, knowing she might have blown her cover just then with all the frustrations building inside her. That was the last thing she needed right now, with the King of Hell already doubting her and this call she now had to make. She couldn’t afford any slip-ups with you or him, like accidentally snapping and yelling out her annoyances, so she shoved her concerns to the back of her mind, putting up a fake front of confidence to make this call.

Your headaches were getting worse and you hadn’t dreamt about your sister’s death until now. According to Crowley, that was one memory in particular he couldn’t afford to have you knowing. If Mandy had her way, she would’ve kept ignoring the dreams and encouraging you to do the same, but if Crowley found out that they were still worsening and Mandy hadn’t called him, she’d be dead on the spot.

So, holding her attitude at bay in favor of her life and with her hands mildly shaking, her front not working quite as she wished, she dialed the number of the man she had just returned from visiting. He picked up quickly, waiting for her to speak first. “They got worse. Again. And she dreamt about her sister…. Yes, I’ll bring her tomorrow.”

Crowley hung up. He hadn’t shouted at Mandy, but he was livid. She could tell. It was a silent, burning anger that now had her trembling under her skin. She was in no way looking forward to the onslaught of wrath she was sure to endure tomorrow, but she still had a job to do tonight.

Mandy settled herself down and strutted into the kitchen, begrudgingly beginning dinner, but with a plastic smile on her face as she kept up her cover. As she cooked, she planned and created possible new spells in her head to help Crowley with the freshly complicated situation while she watched you enjoying a movie across the room, sitting on her couch, wrapped up in her blanket. She hoped her ingenuity would impress Crowley, though, and dissolve these issues easily, allowing her to get you out of her house sooner, but most of all, she hoped they would save her own skin.


	4. The Trials

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean tear apart the bunker looking for clues that can point to what you’d been doing and where you are now. Their findings leave both of them deeply concerned and Sam wondering about his relationship with you.
> 
> [Be Mine-Alice Boman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rf2OPIJcS5k)   
>  [What Sarah Said-Death Cab for Cutie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i_IpHfS6NT0&list=PL9FzrCRE_7NYY1kM1bgS3ZcTk4jCwD5w7)

The bunker had never been so trashed. Open books laid strewn across tables and floors, their pages having been scoured for possible notes or hidden clues. Old file boxes had their contents dumped and violated, no scrap of paper or folders were spared. Each and every spare room, closet, and potential hiding space was rummaged, pilfered, and ransacked.

Neither Winchester knew where you could have been hiding information about your excursions. It wasn’t in yours and Sam’s bedroom, that much was certain, but other than Dean’s bedroom, they felt as if any other place was fair game, even the kitchen or the shooting range. You were incredibly clever and right now that scared Sam in a way it never had before. Your intelligence was attractive to him. He admired it as you continually sent him into a state of awe and affection, but currently it terrified him, as he realized your intellect could very easily be the blockade between him and you.

It wasn’t until Sam and Dean ventured further into the bunker, to rooms they never even considered, that they found the room they needed. Despite the messy nature of the hunt, they did have a method and they kept to it, beginning at the front with the War Room and working their way deeper into the bunker. Though every bone in Sam’s body was screaming to wreck the whole place until he found what he wanted, his head agreed with his heart in favor of your safety, and they settled on a reasonable method of finding you. And so, as Sam and Dean moved forward into the recesses of the bunker, they came across a lonely door with no clear indication on it of what was inside. Not even the men of letters sign was etched into the wooden door.

Sam pushed it open single-handedly, its hinges protesting with creaks and groans, while Dean remained directly behind him. If they hadn’t agreed to search every single space in their underground home, they both would have skipped right over this room. Almost nothing was in it. A single dirty, cobwebbed lamp stood on a desk outfitted with nothing but a thick layer of dust. Behind it against the wall, three sagging cardboard boxes stood in the far corner, stacked atop one another, and an empty bookcase stood beside them.

They only took a second to survey the forgotten office and then went to work. Sam pulled the chain on the lamp, the old light casting a warm glow on the deject, dingy room. He swiped the cobwebs caught on his fingers onto his jeans and began opening the drawers of the desk. Dean started in one of the boxes.

Remnants of the days when this room saw more activity were stuffed into the boxes. A nameplate, files, pens and pencils, and a typewriter were all included. However, the desk was mostly empty, except for the middle drawer right above where one’s legs would go if they sat at the desk.

Sam slid it open, the wood scratching and squeaking against the worn track, and inside laid a few items, neatly arranged and properly organized. Sam picked them up and placed them on the desk in order to sift through them thoroughly. There were three manilla files and two books. The folders had a decent amount of content in them and the books seemed very old. One was written in Latin.

Sam noticed that the folders and books weren’t dusty like the rest of the room and he clenched his jaw. As soon as he flipped open the first folder, his heart plummeted. Organized notes written on lined notebook paper sat inside, their ownership clearly marked by your own handwriting.

Sam could only whisper, “Dean.”

Dean’s head whipped around, not expecting to see Sam staring down at anything consequential, but when he noticed his brother’s shoulders drooping and his hands shaking with pages in their grasp, he dropped the contents of his hands back into their box and walked over to look at what Sam had found.

Dean knew as soon as his eyes landed on the stringently precise stack of notes. There was no mistaking the handwriting or the format of the pages. This had you written all over it.

“What are ‘trials’?” Sam murmured, beginning to flip through the papers.

“Let’s take this to the library. Get some proper lighting.” Dean began walking out of the room until he noticed Sam wasn’t following. He turned back around to see Sam still examining the papers, looking shocked and dismayed, and so he spoke in a firmer voice, “Sam.”

“What?” he said as he finally looked up at Dean.

“I said, let’s take this to the library.”

“Right.” Sam’s voice and hands shook as he placed the pages back into their folder and closed it, stacking all three on top of the books and carrying them out together.

Back in the library, Dean shoved a pile of books off a table and onto the floor. The mess was going to give them both a headache when they eventually cleaned it up, but none of that mattered at the moment. Sam and Dean sat next to each other and Sam took the folders off of the books, placing them directly in front of himself on the table. He opened the first folder and began reading the contents again with Dean leaning over to read with him.

A few sentences in and they were both still confused. Your first set of notes were focused on hellhounds. On the top of the page was a title, _Trial #1._ You had neatly written down tidbits about the creatures–what they were used for, what they looked like–as well as troublesome information, like where to find them, how to see them, and what could kill them. At the end of your notes was a single sentence _Bathe in hellhound’s blood–kill it while lying underneath it???_ You had crossed out the question marks and drawn in a check mark. Photocopied pages from books and grotesque drawings of the dogs were filed after your notes.

Sam grabbed the second file and Dean the third. They were each similar to the first in that they each had titles, _Trial #2_ and _Trial #3._ Sam’s folder contained details about souls, where they ended up, and the requirements for an innocent soul. You had also been trying to locate a gate to hell. You had a section on reapers and their capabilities, along with _Kansas City, Missouri_ written and circled at the bottom. There was another check mark next to this circle.

“Dean, look.” Sam slid the folder over closer to Dean’s line of sight and placed a finger by the circled city.

They glanced at each other knowingly, a slight glimmer of hope in their eyes as they realized they had been on the right track, even though it was painful to be learning about a whole secret life you seemed to have been leading.

“The first one had a check as well, right?” Dean asked. Sam nodded. “This third one doesn’t.”

“What’s it about?” Sam slid the second folder away, leaning over to peer at the last one.

“Curing a demon.” Dean glanced at Sam, whose face was now as white as the notebook pages they were reading.

Sam gulped down the sick feeling rising up in his throat and then forced out another question. “What’s in the notes?”

“How to capture demons, something about a purifying ritual. This is heavy stuff. It’s talking about using your own blood to cure a demon.”

He didn’t say it out loud, but all Sam could think about is why you would be doing such dangerous and gruesome things. It didn’t seem like you at all. Not to mention, it stung deeply to know that you were hiding all of this from him. If these trials were so important to you, he didn’t know why you wouldn’t come to him for help. He would’ve done anything for you, anything at all if you had just asked. He couldn’t bring himself to be mad at you, though. He was far too worried about you right now to let useless emotions get in the way. Whatever this was, he still believed that you must have had good reasons for performing these trials, whatever their purpose was.

“Maybe the books will tell us what this is all for,” Sam conjectured.

Sam reached for the first book, a decent sized volume with no title on the front. Dean grabbed the second one, the work written in Latin, and grumbled that he couldn’t understand any of it. Sam told him to just look for your notes and not to worry about what any of it said.

As Sam flipped through the pages in his book, it became apparent that it was focused on hell and demons, specifically very ancient and obscure lore that not even Sam had heard of before. The only clue Sam found in the pages of this unorthodox volume was one paragraph, circled, and with two sentences highlighted. _As many ways as there are to kill demons and other creatures originating from the depths of hell, these are unsatisfactory. Despite this, I do not venture to elaborate on a certain piece of lore that many in the past have wrestled with, but information does circulate concerning the means to permanently closing the gates of hell._ You had not bothered to focus on the next set of words. _However, anyone who would dare to undertake such a task, whether academically or practically, would have to ignore a large body of reason warning against doing such a thing._

“I found something,” Sam stated grimly.

“Me too.”

Sam and Dean showed each other their findings. In Dean’s book, a tiny section of the latin text had been underlined with your neat, English handwriting in the margins next to it. You had written a bulleted list consisting of three items under the heading of _Closing the Gates of Hell: bathe in the blood of a hellhound, send an innocent soul to heaven, and cure a demon._

Neither brother spoke for a moment, giving time for this dire reality to sink in. You were brave, strong, and relentless, they both knew that. But nothing, absolutely nothing, would have led them to guess that this is what you would be doing in your spare time. Undertaking to close the gates of hell forever was so far past your usual spirit-hunting jobs that Sam felt like he hadn’t truly known you, like his image of you was slowly floating out of his grasp. The shock was so much, he felt a dizzying shake throughout his body, but somehow he still found it in himself to trust you. Whatever your reasoning for trying to do this on your own was, he wanted to find out and help you. He wanted to let you know that he and Dean both desperately wanted to help you with this. If anyone else would want hell boarded up forever, they would, and he thought you would know that. Maybe he had done something wrong and the problem was that you didn’t actually know how much he loved you, how much his heart beat for you every single day, how it leaped when he saw your face and how it hurt with worry when you were gone. Maybe he had been the one to screw up the trust in your relationship.

“I need a moment,” Sam muttered as he took off towards his room.

He went inside and shut the door behind him, leaning against the cool wood for a moment, trying to gain his bearings. He didn’t know what he was doing in this room right now, only that he needed some place to think. This wasn’t the best area to choose, though, as everything he laid his eyes on reminded him in some way of you.

He slowly walked over to the bed and sat himself down on the edge of your side, which he hadn’t disturbed since you’d gone. He placed his elbows on his thighs as he leaned over, staring at the empty space of floor beneath him, thinking back to the moment when he first thought that you were drifting away from him. He realized now that he had been very wrong about what you were going through, but he still couldn’t help but feel that there was something broken between the two of that he hadn’t noticed enough before.

********************

_This wasn’t the first time he found you like this, cuddled on your bed underneath the fuzzy, warm blanket with headphones in your ears, blocking out the world for a little while. But it still concerned him._

_He remembered the first time, though. It was because of a spirit. All the clues had led to the culprit of the hauntings being the mother of the murdered family, but when the three of you arrived at the house and began seeking out the spirit, it wasn’t a middle-aged woman that appeared from the woodwork. Instead, a young girl that couldn’t have been more than eight years old made an appearance. It had taken your breath away. You froze up and couldn’t lift your gun to shoot and repel the spirit. It’s ghastly white hands were almost grasping your neck when Sam turned around, noticing the eerie silence, and saw what was about to happen. He shouted your name, the noise doing nothing to wake you from your shock. He ran in and shot the apparition and then shook you back to reality, grasping your shoulders and running his hands down the side of your face and through your hair, coaxing you out of your shock._

_Needless to say, Sam and Dean had finished that hunt while you sat in the Impala, curled up in the back seat, shaken and remembering too much._

_Later that night, Sam entered the motel room to find you laying in the bed perfectly still with headphones in. He laid beside you, wrapping an arm around your figure. You settled into him without saying a word. He tried to ask if you were ok, but you didn’t hear him. He then poked your shoulder to get your attention. You took out one earbud and he repeated his question softly._

_“Yeah, I’m fine,” you had whispered, sadness seeping through your response. “I just like to listen to music to get away for awhile. It helps me process things.”_

_Sam nodded into the back of your head and he spoke softly as he told you to put your headphones back in, he would just lay here with you until you were ready to get up. You had lifted his hand and kissed it before placing it back across you and returning the ear bud to its place. Sam smiled as he looked over you and saw the name of the song flash across the screen of your iPod. “Be mine.”_

_“I already am,” he thought, “Always and forever.”_

_He found you like that a few times after that, usually when you were upset about a hunt or the fact that he or Dean had gotten hurt. Sometimes he knew you wanted him close, other times he let you have your space._

_The last time he found you like that was different. Nothing he could think of had triggered it. By that time, you had gone out a couple times by yourself already, but hadn’t told him if anything had gone wrong. He didn’t think much of your laying in bed, not until you left to shower and he waited for you in the bedroom, wanting to talk to you, hoping to find out what was bothering you. He picked up your iPod to see what you had been listening to, always curious about your music taste. You were continually finding something new to listen to, devouring music in the same way Dean devoured pies._

_He lifted the screen towards his face as the name moved across the screen. “What Sarah Said” was its title. He had some time before you returned, so he put the earbuds in and started the song over again. It was incredibly sad from the start and Sam found himself becoming increasingly concerned about you as the beautiful, but despondent tune carried on. It wasn’t until the song was almost over, when he heard the line “love is watching someone die,” that he felt his heart drop through the floor._

_At that moment, in ignorance, he thought that you were overwhelmed by his and Dean’s life, that you were tired of watching the people you loved be put in harm’s way. It made sense, he thought, because before Sam, you never came so close to werewolves and vampires and demons. Spirits often presented the least amount of danger and that’s what you were accustomed to._

_That night, he had finished the song and laid the iPod back on your bed. He went outside and took a walk in the crisp, evening air, hoping it would clear his racing thoughts as he evaluated your relationship and eventually decided, after much battling with himself, that he would wait for you to do or say whatever you needed to, but thinking that soon, he might have to let you go._

********************

The song meant something different to him now, sitting in his room alone and full of new, harrowing information, although he couldn’t quite decide what the difference was at the moment. Maybe you felt like the song was about yourself. Even though he hadn’t known it, you were preparing to put yourself through extreme danger then, planning on how to kill a hellhound. Or maybe it was about your family and your sister. He knew how deeply that wound still stung and how you carried guilt about that night with you wherever you went. Or maybe it was actually about him. Maybe you were trying to save him.

Dean walked in the room just then, carrying a single page of the notes. He didn’t walk far into the room, seeing Sam hanging over the edge of the bed deep in thought. The news he was bringing wouldn’t change Sam’s state and so he said it reluctantly, with a lump in his throat and a soft edge to his tone.

“I found something else, in the demon notes.” He paused and waited, making sure he could go on. Sam didn’t stir, so he continued. “She was looking for Crowley, I guess to cure him. I guess that’s another reason why he’d be pissed enough to take her. Looks like we’ve got some direction with this now. We just have to get to Crowley.”

Sam looked up at Dean, a harsh glare building in his eyes. He felt his muscles tensing as he thought about what Crowley might be doing to you or where he might be keeping you. Concerns about the rationale for your behavior would have to wait.

He rose up from the bed and said through his teeth as he walked out of the bedroom, standing tall and determined, “Yeah, looks like we do.”


	5. The Spell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mandy takes you to see her "friend." You're unsure about the visit, though, and for good reason.

An uneasy feeling had settled into your stomach overnight and a dull ache throbbed every so often throughout your head. Lying there in a bed that didn’t seem so comfortable anymore, you thought perhaps the sensations were the aftermath of yesterday’s nightmares, but your stomach twisted tightly at the thought of visiting the unknown friend today. The question that begged to be answered, the question that was the cause of your concerns, was whether or not you were losing your mind. The simple, optimistic answer was that your brain was processing stress in an inconvenient, tormenting method. Your life satisfaction was low, with all the annoyances of your job and the lack of any sort of hobbies or genuine social life. You only had Mandy. Your mind had latched onto something fantastical in order to satisfy what was lacking. That could explain the dreams. All you had to do was find something worthwhile and fulfilling and your mind would ease back into contentment. At least, that’s the method you hoped this therapist would recommend. 

As you routinely showered, dressed, and fixed your hair, measly self-help mantras repeated in your head. _I can do this. This is just another life challenge. I’m strong enough to do deal with this. Mandy’s friend is there to help. I’m ok. I’m not crazy._ They didn’t help. Your stomach was still knotted and a faint sweat was developing over your skin.

You stalled your departure, contemplating your reflection. Your hair was down. It shined healthily and had cooperated this morning. You wore dark jeans and a muted red plaid shirt, buttoned up over a t-shirt. This moment stood out, offering a repose from the physical anxiety and mental gymnastics. Your reflection felt familiar and comfortable. Most days it didn’t, you were just in too much of a rush in the mornings to ponder it and you didn't have much time to do so now. With one last inhale, you turned away from the mirror and picked up your purse from the bed. Out of habit, you took out a package of cinnamon gum and popped a piece in your mouth. Mandy hollered from somewhere in the house, announcing that she was ready and you dropped the package without looking, thinking it had returned to your bag, but it fell onto the comforter.

Mandy looked you up and down once you were in the living room.

“Is this too casual?” you asked, noting her uneasy gaze and her slightly more formal cardigan and pants.

“It’s fine,” she sighed before picking up the pace of her words. “Come on, we don’t want to be late.”

She pivoted on her heels swiftly, passing through the front door as a blur. You turned the lock on the doorknob before shutting the door behind you and catching up to Mandy, who was already sitting in her car with the ignition turned on. 

The ride did nothing to soothe your nerves. Mandy remained silent, not even switching on the radio. You twiddled with your fingers while staring out the window. Because of Mandy’s mood, you locked your questions inside your mouth, questions like _what was this friend’s name_ and _where was he located._ Usually a chatterbox, today she said nothing and did nothing except drive. Unbridled by the poignant silence, your questions only scratched forcefully at the forefront of your mind and then reared up more violently when Mandy drove into the shady part of the city. 

Having sat perfectly still up until now, your head turned from the windows to the windshield, viewing the graffitied, dilapidated buildings passing by and the stalkish figures with glazed-over eyes walking throughout the streets. You absentmindedly pushed the lock button on your door, your fingers lingering over the familiar plastic as you sat straight as a rod, your wide-eyes taking in the neglected neighborhood. You searched frantically for a building that could be an office, but didn’t locate one.

Mandy eventually pulled into a faded and weed-ridden parking lot of a building that blended in with the surrounding scenery. The two-story structure was warehouse-like, most likely abandoned, and thoroughly worrying. But Mandy exited the car without so much as a word of explanation as to why she had brought you here. You watched her circle around the car from the inside for a moment. You were beginning to realize that your worries this morning had not been unfounded.

When she didn’t get back in the car, you followed her out and questioned her hesitantly as you walked behind her towards the door. “Mandy, where are we?”

She turned around with a chilling, cold smile that unsettled your nerves even further. “You’ll see once we get inside, don’t worry.”

A man dressed in a completely black suit emerged from the door, as if he had been watching for your arrival. Your clothing choice felt even more informal now as you looked his suit up and down. 

With no inflection to his tone, he asked, “Is this the girl?”

“Yes,” Mandy replied.

The man nodded and opened the door for both of you, but you backed away. Something about this set up was off, that wasn’t hard to see. Any sort of doctor or therapist who practiced out of a rundown structure with hit-men as their welcome was not a doctor you wanted to see.

“You know what,” you croaked, “I think we should just go home. I’ll be fine. I've been thinking and I think I just need to-.”

Mandy spun around with a grimace and gripped your arm, applying an unnecessary amount of pressure. You stopped, wided-eyed and alarmed at her aggression. 

“You’re coming in,” she stated tautly as she pulled you towards the door.

You tripped over your feet, unable to protest due to the shock of what was happening. She yanked you through the door and the sting of her nails digging into your arm was dulled by the overwhelming sense of dread you felt stepping inside the warehouse. The outside indicated nothing about the inside. You were in a whole other dimension the moment you stepped over the threshold. Once your eyes adjusted to the dramatic light difference, you still couldn’t see much. The interior of the building would’ve been pitch black if not for the glowing orange and red lights coming from various cracks in the floor and walls. The glowing could easily be mistaken for some sort of fire. As Mandy drug you down a corridor, the hall took shape and you could make out the stone in the walls and arches spaced along the ceiling. Words were lodged in your throat and your movement was stunted. Even if you had been able to get yourself free from her grasp, you doubt you would’ve gone very far. The hitman was behind you and he would no doubt mercilessly render you unconscious if needed. 

As you moved deeper into the building, you felt further and further away from home. The space became warmer until you sweat through your shirts. The smell was nauseating, a mix of smoke, stale body odor, and a scent that reminded you of the metallic taste of blood. As you took it all in, you cried, the complete reality of your situation sinking in. This was not a visit to a therapist. Mandy was not doing this to help you. Your head hurt and your stomach was queasy. You were lightheaded because of the heat. In all likelihood, your life was in danger and you had absolutely no way to defend yourself. You didn’t even know how to fight. 

You stopped moving in front of a large, wooden door with massive iron handles. The man behind you went inside first, a cool draft rushing in from the other side of the door. A few seconds later, he opened the door and stood to the side, allowing you and Mandy to walk through. 

Sniffling and shaking and still being pulled by Mandy, you observed this new room. The temperature was comfortable, cool even, in contrast to the previous warm environment, and the smell wasn’t necessarily pleasant, but the musty scent of ancient stone and furniture was more tolerable. The walls were still stone and there were arches in the ceiling. You stopped taking in the new environment when an unfamiliar voice spoke, drawing your gaze directly in front of you. 

“Good afternoon, Mandy.” The man who spoke with an english accent was sitting atop a seat that could only be described as a throne. Dressed entirely in black, his demeanor was intimidating despite the fact that he sat casually, with one leg propped up on his knee. His eyes were empty, though, and his face blank. He had you quaking all the way to your bones, his gaze making you feel exposed and vulnerable.

Mandy nodded. “Crowley.”

“And you must be Y/N. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Crowley gazed down at your terrified form with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. You couldn’t open your mouth. You couldn’t even think of anything to say. “I’m sorry, you must be very confused at the moment. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Crowley, the King of Hell.” His mouth turned up into a devilish grin and he moved his arms, spreading his hands over the expanse of his kingdom. 

“Wh-what?” you stammered, struggling to remain standing. Mandy was still gripping your arm tightly. It was the only thing holding you up. “That’s impossible.”

“Oh, it’s very possible. I’m sorry you don’t remember this place very well. It has been awhile since you’ve visited. But we can reacquaint you with my home easily.”

“Remember? I don’t-”

“Why don’t you tell me about the problems you’ve been having lately? That is why you’re here, correct?” Crowley disregarded your question. 

You looked around the room, from Crowley to Mandy to the henchmen standing by the columns, from the iron candelabra lamps to the shelves full of scrolls to the rack of knives and scalpels. You opened your mouth, fully intending to speak, but gasps and sobs fell out in place of words. This was all too similar to the dreams you’d been having. Mandy’s grip tightened as your knees buckled and gave out. You collapsed. 

“Get up,” she snarled.

“Now, Mandy. Let’s be courteous to our guest.” Crowley stood up from his black and purple throne. He stopped in front of you as you straightened up with Mandy’s help and he placed a hand under your chin, lifting your head. You shivered at his cold, emotionless touch. “Now, dear, just tell me what’s been happening to you. I promise to be a good listener.”

You sobbed one more time before opening your mouth to speak. A choked, weak voice came from your mouth. “I’ve been having dreams.”

Crowley dropped his hand and gestured for Mandy to release you. The pressure release was a relief, but you still didn’t want to talk. You wanted to run. But Crowley insisted that you continue.

“Yes. What are they about?”

“Mostly things that, that can’t be true. Like-.” You looked at Crowley and he nodded for you to keep going. “Like ghosts and monsters.”

He didn’t seem surprised. “And are the same people always in these dreams?”

You scrunched your brows, wondering how he would’ve have known that. Maybe Mandy had been talking with him. That’s the only way he could have any information about your dreams. “Yes, usually two men or a family.”

Crowley’s expression tightened at the mention of two men. “And these men wouldn’t happen to be extremely tall and in the habit of wearing numerous layers, would they?” he asked, his voice strained and agitated. 

“Y-yes, but how-”

Crowley turned and walked back up to his throne. “Mandy, you’ve been keeping details from me. I do not appreciate that.” He turned around, directing a terrifying, harsh glare in Mandy’s direction.

Mandy replied with equal force in her tone. “You said her sister was the important one. I told you about her sister-”

“Silence! Are you deliberately trying to ruin everything? Dreaming about _them_ and possibly recognizing _them_ is just as serious!” Crowley was now shouting. “You lied to me, saying she was alone in her dreams.”

Mandy had no response. Her lips were stretched thin and her face was pale. You could see her trembling. Real terror filled you as you realized that Mandy had been working with Crowley for a very long time, probably longer than the three months since you had the first dream. Their conversation was utterly confusing, though. You didn’t have a sister. You didn’t know any abnormally tall men. They were just part of the dreams, but the two of them were convinced that these people were somehow important to you. But there was no way you could recognize people that were figments of your subconscious, not unless-

“I believe that your usefulness has run out.” Crowley’s sociopathic tone brought you out of your thoughts. A new sense of dread gripped you as you watched Crowley’s countenance change. The look in his eyes was one of a murderer. He showed nothing but distaste for Mandy. Whatever she had done had angered him to the point of rage, but his rage was cool and calculated. He could do anything to her. Gut wrenching knots twisted in your stomach as your heart dropped to your feet, leaving a woozy feeling throughout your body.

Mandy stammered and pleaded. “No, please, I’ve got more spells. I can fix this. I-”

“No, dear, you can’t. Your spell didn’t work. You aren’t powerful enough. Your time is up.” Crowley’s voice was calm and level.

Your eyes widened as you realized what he meant. You wondered which of the sharp objects on his rack he would use to do the job, eyeing the display of torture tools that you could see just beyond Mandy’s head. You desperately wanted not to be there to watch him murder, but he didn’t allow you to leave. He didn’t even seem to notice that you were still there. He kept his eyes trained on Mandy while yours moved back and forth between the two of them. He raised his hand and flicked his wrist and Mandy’s neck snapped, the sound echoing throughout the stone hall, her dead eyes looking into yours before her body crumpled to the ground with a heavy thud.

You jolted backwards, trying to scream with your mouth agape, but no sound came out. The knots in your stomach twisted harder and bile rose up the back of your throat. Before you could prevent it, you buckled over and heaved, emptying what little you had left in your stomach.

Strong hands grabbed your arms from behind and you reacted, jabbing your elbow into the man’s stomach and spinning around to throw a punch. The man clutched your wrist mid-punch and you stopped, gaping at your fist in shock. You didn’t know to fight. There was no way you should’ve known how to do any of that.

He twisted your arm and you gasped as he spun you around, pinning your arm behind your back.

“Release her,” Crowley ordered and the man did.

You stumbled forward with the shove of his release and looked up to see Crowley standing before you. Now would usually be the time to beg for your life, to bargain, to promise that if he let you go, you wouldn’t tell anyone, but you had quickly realized none of that would be effective. Whether it was the lack of any emotion in his eyes or his controlling demeanor, as if he really were a king, you knew that any pleas you made would fall on deaf ears. So you waited for whatever came next. 

“Y/N, you are going to stay here with me for awhile, until I decide what I want to do with you. Before I lock you up, though, I’ll let you in on your options.” Crowley began pacing in front of you, looking over at you as he spoke. “I might find another witch, like your late friend Mandy, to fix this whole mess.” You strained not to look at her body on the ground just a few feet beside you as you whimpered. “Or I might just keep you here. Hell always needs more souls, anyway. Or,” He stopped directly in front of you, painfully close, and you couldn’t breathe, “I’ll just kill you. Now, that would be the simplest solution, wouldn’t it? But I haven’t decided yet.”

He turned away from you and sat back down on his throne. “Put her up,” Crowley ordered to the man behind you, motioning out the door. 

His hands grabbed your arms again, but you didn’t fight. The messages from your brain to your muscles were blocked by pure terror and shock. Your mind was in a frenzy, a slush of neurotransmitters and hormones, but your body was numb, allowing itself to be turned in any which way as you were led down the same corridor to another unknown destination. This wasn’t another dream, though, no matter how it resembled yours. Sisters, spells, and the king of hell all sounded like nonsense, it was all nonsense. None of it could be true. Yet, it was happening to you. This was your reality. Your dreams were coming true, except this time, there were no men by your side to help you fight off this unbelievable evil.


	6. The House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean find a way to locate the house you were staying at and they arrive at the home, expecting to find you there.

Locating Crowley was straightforward. Find a demon. Interrogate it. Kill said demon. Rescue you. 

The Winchesters knew that utilizing a summoning spell or Crowley’s contact information on their phones wouldn’t bring him to them. Any communication on their part would be ignored or dealt with by an onslaught of more demon henchmen like the one they previously encountered at the motel. So they circumvented all of those complications and went straight for their most useful tool: capture and torture. 

It didn’t take them long to find a pathetic, scraggly demon that could be drug back to the bunker. They knew that crossroads demons were easiest to capture since they were so often exposed. It took them all of two hours to locate an active crossroads, two more to drive there, and less than an hour to set up their trap, which consisted of demon cuffs and holy water. 

They allowed a washed out, forty-something year old man who was still dressed in his office slacks and tie to place his objects in the self-dug hole, hoping for a hot wife and a sports car. Much to the man’s surprise, the demon that appeared took the form of a college aged frat boy instead of the femme fatale of his fantasies. Sam and Dean sent him running after the demon showed up, though. The man hadn’t even expressed his wishes yet. Sam and Dean’s guns were enough to scare him off. The demon’s flash of black eyes was just an extra element of fun before Midlife Crisis bolted, his dirty knees quaking. 

The unsuspecting demon was possessing a young man who was decent in strength, but much smaller in both height and muscle than either Winchester. It was easily rendered helpless by a shower of holy water that caused him to wail and flail long enough for Dean to secure the shackles from the bunker onto its wrists. It was helpless after that, trapped by salted iron and etched-in devil's’ traps. Sam and Dean shoved him into the back seat of the Impala and they drove home with Sam seated next to the demon, the colt prodding him in the side should he attempt anything stupid. 

At the bunker, it took only the tools of the trade to extract an answer from the demon. 

The sniveling creature attempted a die-hard attitude at first, staying silent except to give them cheek, but it quickly became apparent that he valued his own existence over loyalty to any hellish regime. It didn’t take Dean long to pull some answers from the man, using a unique combination of salt and holy water strategically injected into choice veins. He took some liberty with demon blade, too. Sam stood as a heavy presence in the room while Dean did his work, waiting in case any more persuasion was needed to convince him to speak. Sam would’ve been more than willing to take his turn with the black cloud that dared to stand between him and you. It would’ve been all too easy for him to relentlessly punish the creature. 

After maybe an hour of torture, the demon finally choked out an answer with bloody coughs in the form of an Arizona address. 

“Th-that’s where she’s been living.” He hacked up more blood, the mess dribbling down onto his shirt and pants as he doubled over, wheezing. “That’s a-all I know, I swear.” 

The demon looked up at Sam and Dean with glazed over eyes, hunched over in the seat, the whites of his eyes visible as they rolled back into his head and he waited for his release. Dean gave him one, just not the type he expected. It came in the form of the demon blade thrusted into his chest and a display of orange and red lightning sparks shooting throughout his body. That was probably more forgiving than the punishment he surely would’ve received under Crowley for betraying him. 

After they exited the dungeon with concrete answers, leaving the body slumped in the chair, Sam could breathe. He was so close to seeing you again. There was a rush of exhilaration that passed from his head to his toes as he imagined holding your beautiful face in his hands once again. As he packed his bags for the drive to Arizona, thinking of the reunion, tears flowed out of his eyes, causing him to wipe his cheeks with the back of his hand while he looked down at his clothes with blurry vision. Packing some of your own clothes amplified the anticipation. As his fingers grasped the fabric that had once been in contact with your skin, he felt like some part of your presence was still there, egging on his hope. It made you feel that much closer to him. 

He made sure to fold your favorite t-shirt and place it in the bag and to bring along your pillow, thinking you might need to sleep on the way home. He would want you to be comfortable. It was a simple, helpful gesture he could do until you needed something more, which you might, depending on how you had been treated for the past three months. He didn’t know what state he would find you in. He didn’t want to think about that. You were alive, he knew that for sure now, and that’s what he focused on. If you were being kept in a house, your living conditions had to be decent at the least, or so he hoped. However, instead of fretting over your physical state, he thought about what he would say to you. It gave him more strength and focus, dreaming up a scenario, than it did to allow any fear to creep up inside him. You’d probably try to apologize, realizing that he and Dean knew all your secrets now, but he wouldn’t let you worry about it. You shouldn’t feel to blame for everything that happened to you. All that mattered to Sam was that you were safe and sound back in his arms. You could discuss the trials later, after recovery and making up for lost time. 

He imagined what your reunion would look like. He knew he would rush towards you, pick you up if he could. He’d run his hands over you, checking for injuries. He’d re-memorize your face after all danger had been eliminated and then clutch you close to him to hear your breathing once again. He’d sit with you in the back seat of the Impala on the ride home, making sure you felt safe. When he got you home, he’d tuck you into bed for resting and make you some coffee or any food you wanted. He’d learned how to bake a few of your favorite things and would put all of those skills to use. After that, he imagined he wouldn’t leave your side for a very long time. 

Getting things back to normal wouldn’t be perfect, Sam knew that. There would be bumps on the road. Sam knew what traumatic experiences did to the mind and body and because of that, he knew he would be able to aid your recovery. But no matter how formidable your situation could’ve been, today was the day. He was going to see you again and he couldn’t hide the bubbling anticipation inside him as he came out of his room and found Dean waiting for him by the stairs. There was a passing interaction between the two of them, a silent communication. Dean was more reserved, opting to stay realistic, but hopeful. Sam was itching to go. His movements were jerky as he crossed the room, nodded at Dean, and walked up to the door. 

It took an entire day’s drive to reach the city where you were and they arrived on your street late at night after most of the neighborhood had gone to sleep. Sam double and triple checked the piece of paper with the address scratched onto it while Dean rolled down the street, watching for the right numbers to pop up on a mailbox or front porch. Then they saw it. An unassuming, small stucco home with a brown door and brown shutters and the four numbers painted onto the mailbox at the end of the driveway. There were no lights on inside and no cars parked outside. 

Sam jumped out of the car as soon as Dean came to a stop across the street, readying his gun and preparing for whatever fight may be waiting for him on the other side of the door. He wasn’t going to rush in, but he couldn’t contain his anxious expectancy. You were on the other side of those walls, right through that door, waiting on him. Once they crossed the street, Dean checked the windows, but the curtains were drawn, preventing them from getting a preview of the situation inside. They tried the door, but it was locked. Sam picked it in no time, though, pushing it open with caution. They entered in their usual formation with guns cocked and loaded, scanning back and forth once they were inside. 

The first thing they noticed after flipping on the lights was how suburban the interior was. They didn’t know what to expect for demon decor, but potted cacti, Ikea furniture, and the absolute absence of blood, bones, or ancient relics wasn’t it. The second thing they noticed was how empty the home was. It was quiet, which was normal for the middle of the night, but each room they entered and searched held no one. There wasn’t a single soul in this house and there was no you. Sam felt his heart drop foot by foot, each time they turned a corner or opened a door and found more of the same. He was beginning to feel sick, like his stomach might actually convulse hard enough to come up out of his throat. 

He had the right address. He had checked it so many times he already had it memorized. The only way they could be at the wrong location was if the crossroads demon had set them on a rabbit trail. He slammed the last door of the last room open with fury, pissed off, barely seeing straight, and devastated to the point of emotional instability. You weren’t in here either. The door had opened to a second bedroom. It was decorated almost exactly like the first one they searched, except for a few personal touches. 

Sam flipped on the light and he quickly scanned the room, realizing that obviously no one was there. But a small package lying on top of the bed caught his eye, stopping him from storming out of the room. He strode towards it, picking it up and turning it over in his hand. It was a package of cinnamon gum. The same kind you always bought. Sam looked around the room again, suddenly aware of all the personal touches he had glazed over at first, his heart pacing erratically in his chest. There was a pot of your favorite flowers sitting on the dresser. The bed sheets were your favorite color. Inside the open closet, there were business clothes, but also clothes in the style you always wore. You had been here, even if you weren’t here now. 

Sam hollered for Dean and he came running, expecting a demon, but finding a tensed Sam holding out a gum package in his hand. Dean took it from Sam’s hand, instantly knowing why it was so important. They held each other’s gaze for a moment, recognizing that you had been living here. It was a bittersweet revelation. 

“Maybe she’s just out somewhere?” Sam said. 

“But why does everything look normal? Why would she just be living here?” Dean had the right questions. “And who is she living with? That other room looked occupied. There were clothes in the closet.” 

Sam’s thoughts and stomach twisted in unison, scrambling for some sort of explanation that made sense to him. He squeezed his hand, encapsulating the package of gum. Somebody, who was working with Crowley, had to be forcing you to live here. That was the only explanation for this house that could make sense. Now they had another obstacle to overcome: figure out who that person was and where you were now. 

Sam and Dean ransacked the contents of your bedroom like they did the bunker, methodically searching the drawers, closet, and underneath the bed, but they turned up nothing. They did the same to the other bedroom and then moved on to a small office up the hall. Inside, there was a desk with drawers that held nothing important and a file cabinet, which was locked. Sam clenched his jaw, pointing out the lock to Dean. He stood over Sam, watching him pick his second lock of the night. 

The drawer screeched open, metal against metal, and they stuck their heads over it, peering down at all sorts of witchy herbs, trinkets, and bones. There were items to make hexbags and lots of other spells and curses that the Winchesters didn’t want to know about. The contents of the other drawers were similar. One held spell books, another held bottles of blood and other liquids. By the time they finished rummaging through the witch’s secret stash, both of their faces were stark white. 

“I think we have the right house,” Dean mumbled. 

So, Crowley had you under the care of a witch. You were held captive in a house against your will, living with a stranger who most likely had been using some of her magic on you, and now you and the witch were nowhere to be found. Sam was absolutely terrified now. He thought that maybe knowing more about where you were would help, but now he had specific things to be afraid of and his imagination was running wild with horrible possibilities. 

He didn’t know why Crowley had set you up with a witch and why he hadn’t held you captive in hell with him, though. That question troubled him, but as worried as he was about why you had been here, he had to focus on the fact that now you weren’t. He and Dean could wait to see if you came back sometime tonight, hopefully with the witch so they could gank her, but Sam was concerned that you may be somewhere else now. There was always the chance that Crowley had learned of their movements and relocated you. The demon’s threat in the motel room seemed very real now and he pleaded to whatever heavenly powers that could help him that you hadn’t been punished because he came after you. 

They waited out the night in the living room, agreeing that staying until morning was a good idea, incase their worst fears weren’t true and you were just out with the witch. They sat on the couch, waiting for the sounds of tires pulling up the driveway, chatting a little, but mostly staying silent so they could hear your arrival. Sam was too worried to hold much of a conversation anyway. 

“Are you boys just going to sit here all night or do you want some real answers?” A tall woman with slick black hair that fell past her shoulders appeared in the living room. She had her arms crossed over her black leather jacket, standing with all of her weight on one leg. 

Sam and Dean jumped up from their seats and drew their guns, but the woman just laughed. 

“Relax. I’m not a demon. I’m here to help you,” she said as she dropped her arms and walked closer to them. Her boots tapped loudly across the hardwood flooring. 

“Then who are you, huh?” Dean asked, flicking his gun at her. 

“The name’s Zara. I’m a familiar face, sort of. You’ve ran into my kind a few times, given how many brushes with death you’ve both had,” she taunted. 

“You’re a reaper,” Sam stated. 

“Bingo.” 

“So how’re you gonna help us? What do you have to do with all this?” Dean asked, tightening the grip on his pistol, his finger on the trigger waiting for the reaper to give him an opportunity to shoot. 

“First of all, put the guns down. Someone’s fingers are going to slip with how much tension is in this room,” she ordered. 

Both of the boys let down their guns reluctantly, after glancing at each other for reassurance, and they waited for the reaper to start explaining her business there. 

“That’s better. Now, I’m assuming you’re wondering where Y/N is?” Zara asked. 

“That would be it,” Sam said. 

“Well, you were on the right track. She was here, for three months to be exact. Until yesterday.” 

“What happened yesterday?” Sam’s confident tone began to falter. 

“Her witchy roommate took her to see Crowley. Don’t know why, but I can’t imagine the reason’s good.” 

“So she’s in hell.” 

“Bingo again.” 

“And what does any of this have to do with you?” Dean interjected. 

“I can get you into hell, right at the front door of Crowley’s throne room. It’s a special skill of reapers.” 

“Yeah? And why are you wanting to help us?” Dean questioned. 

“Dean,” Sam interrupted, not wanting Dean to run off the one connection they had. 

“Sam, she could be playing us.” 

“I have my reasons,” Zara stated, “and I don’t have to explain them to either of you. Do you want Y/N back or not?” 

“Yes,” Sam answered. 

“Ok, then it’s settled. I’ll take you to the door and let you in. Let’s go.” 

Zara pivoted on her heels and walked out the door, leaving Sam and Dean surprised and hesitant, but only momentarily. They didn’t know whether they could actually trust this reaper, but it was the only lead they had on your current location, and if you were truly in hell as Zara said, they couldn’t waste a single second. There was no telling why the witch had brought you there after three months or what Crowley could be doing to you. So they took off after Zara, prepared to waltz through a door to hell and take you from Crowley. 

Dean was wary of this setup, but he went with Sam on the decision, trusting in their teamwork to make everything work out. They were one step closer to finding you again. They couldn’t back down now. As they followed Zara out to the car, letting her sit shotgun to give Dean directions, Sam thought that Crowley had another thing coming if he believed he could keep you hidden from the Winchesters. He was going to learn a hard lesson soon. Sam and Dean were angry and focused enough to make this lesson deadly, not caring about previous connections they’ve had with the Crossroads Demon. They would do anything to rescue you from the clutches of hell, even if it meant leaving hell’s throne empty. The King was about to have hellfire rained down on his own throne room.


	7. The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has been keeping you locked up while he decides what to do next and Sam and Dean are closing in on your location with help from Zara. But what happens when Sam finds you and you don’t remember him?

When you awoke the next morning, your head was pounding and your joints ached from sleeping on the clammy, rough stone floor. Your eyes were puffy from crying and if you hadn't been in a dungeon, you might've mistaken your symptoms for a hangover. You actually couldn't tell whether it was morning, afternoon, or evening, though. There were no windows in this cell, leaving you in almost absolute darkness. 

Your surroundings were disappointing, if not downright terrifying. You had naively hoped that awakening would return you to the reality of two days ago, that the horrifying nightmares were only that, but returning to consciousness solidified what you had guessed yesterday: reality as you knew it was gone. 

Sitting up, you scooted backwards. The chain hooked around your ankle and connected to something sticking out of the ground scraped obnoxiously loud across the floor, intensifying your headache. When you felt the wall on your back, you relaxed against it, closing your eyes and just breathing. Tired. Achy. Thirsty. Scared. You felt all of those sensations, especially thirsty. 

Your closed eyes replayed yesterday’s events for the thousandth time. Yesterday had been the worst day of your life. You'd had some rough ones in the past three months, mostly revolving around the dreams and the constant feeling of losing your mind, but yesterday had taken the cake. After one of Crowley’s accomplices had thrown you into the prison and you had panicked for at least a couple hours--crying out for no one in particular, begging to be taken home, shaking so violently your chain rattled against the stone--your body gave up and fell asleep, exhausted from the emotional and physical assault. 

It seemed as if your anxiety had run its course, though, and that your body had settled into a content state. Somehow, your muscles and bones knew what to do in this setting. You ached from your sleeping position, but you had expected to continue feeling shaky, nervous, and weak. You weren’t, though. You hadn't even had a nightmare about Mandy, though the image of her twisted neck did send chills down your spine. 

You tried to grieve for her, you really did, but it was hard to feel sympathy for someone who had been lying during your entire friendship, conspiring with someone who wanted you dead. Whether that death would be at the hands of a demon, you couldn't decide. It was almost too fantastical for you to believe that demons actually existed. That would mean there had to be a devil, maybe even a heaven, and angels. Right now, that idea was too much of a mental leap for you, considering all that you had been through. The thought of it didn't send your body into panic mode, though. You were surprised at how calm you remained, sitting there in a dark cell, held captive by some seriously deranged individuals. 

Your calm allowed you to focus on escaping. Sitting there had given your eyes some time to adjust to the lack of light in the room. There wasn't much to see, but you no longer felt like you were being held in a dark abyss. You began crawling around, searching and reaching for anything small enough to pick a lock. You had never done it before, but it was worth a shot to try and learn now. The chain on your ankle was of sizable length, but you couldn't get around the whole room and your fingers found only smooth, cool stone as you groped in the darkness. You plopped back onto your bottom, muttering curses for deciding to wear your hair down yesterday. Usually you had at least five bobby pins in your bun for work. 

Just then, the door to your cell creaked open, the abrasive sound and light coming from the open doorway making you cover your eyes and twist away from the figure entering the room. When the door shut, you lowered your arm from your eyes, expecting to see Crowley, but instead there stood a woman carrying a tray. She swished her hand and two lanterns hanging on the wall behind you lit up, a sudden fire on each of their wicks. That was a neat trick. You could see that she was dressed similar to the henchmen you had encountered yesterday, but this woman smiled down at you. It wasn’t an overly warm grin, but she didn’t seem entirely hostile either. 

She walked towards you deliberately, bending down to place the tray in front of your feet. On it was a clear glass of water and a plate with a sandwich. It wasn’t anything fancy, but you felt extremely thankful for any food that might come your way. 

“Thank you,” you said quietly, scooting up to the tray. 

The woman returned to her rigid, upright stance. “Don’t thank me. Crowley’s the one who believes we should feed our prisoners. Personally, I think it’s more fun to watch them wither away.” 

Her smiled shifted into a sneer and you snatched your hand back from the glass of water, afraid that she might've done something to your food. You watched her glowering down at you, waiting to detect any hostile movements. She seemed like the kind of person who would disobey a direct order, like ‘don’t harm the prisoner,’ if she thought she could get away with it. 

“Crowley will be coming to see you later. I suggest you eat all you can now.” The woman then turned away, walking out the door and slamming it shut, locking you inside the solitary prison once again. 

At least you had food now. And some light. But her words left you uneasy. You ate, considering her last words, but instead of filling your stomach and replenishing your energy, eating made you nauseous. If Crowley was going to finally grace your presence, he must have decided what he was going to do with you. If he tried to kill you, you had to fight. It didn’t matter that you didn’t know how and that it was probably going to land you unconscious sooner rather than later, but you weren’t going to sit and allow this abominable man to murder you without so much as protest. And maybe, by some miracle, you could escape. You had almost punched a henchman yesterday without the necessary skill set to do so. You could make that happen again, whatever that was. You would just envision all of the men in this prison as your misogynistic boss and release all your pent up frustration on them. 

Crowley didn’t show for some time, though, which you guessed was a tactic he used to make his prisoners more flustered and weak by means of building anticipation of the unknown, but the unexplainable calm that had settled over you earlier was still there. You had every reason to be freaking out, weeping and thrashing your chains, but you sat still in the dimly lit room, contemplating how you might be able to knock the man out if he gave you the chance, but all you had was the chain and your own strength. You couldn’t keep track of the time while you planned, but if you had to guess, Crowley had been keeping you waiting for a few hours. You grew increasingly bored, watching the shadows shift and flow along the wall opposite you, thanks to the lamps that had been lit. There were only so many shapes and figures that you could imagine dancing across the stone. 

Just when you were yawning, contemplating an afternoon nap, your door opened once again with an ear-splitting screech. This time, Crowley was the one to enter through the door, bearing no gifts and wearing no friendly gaze, not even in mockery as the first woman had. He appeared indifferent. 

“Good evening, Y/N. I trust that your food was brought earlier?” he said, stopping a few feet in front of you, his hands resting in his pockets. 

So it was evening. You’d been here not quite thirty-six hours. There was still a good chance that someone could find you. You hadn’t gone into work today. Hopefully someone would notice. 

“You know, generally, it’s polite to respond when you are spoken to,” Crowley chided, peering down at you. 

You wanted to spit in his face for making you feel so small and show him that you didn’t buy into his friendly-captor charade, but you knew better than to lash out immediately. You had to wait for the opportune moment, playing along until that moment came. 

“Yes, I got the food,” you stated, a layer of sass hidden under your polite tone. 

He smirked and relaxed his stand, snapping his fingers. The chain fell off your ankle with a clang. 

“Good, good. I hope it was satisfying. I do like to hold myself to a certain amount of honor. This isn’t Guantanamo Bay after all.” 

So he had fed you and released your chains. Big deal. He wasn’t going to fool you that easily. As soon as you didn’t give him what he wanted, whatever that was, he would turn vile in an instant. 

You decided to test that theory softly, responding with spite. “Yes, my accommodations are absolutely _perfect_. Thank you.” 

He immediately caught on, as you expected, and dropped any friendly countenance. “Watch yourself, Y/N. You should be grateful for my generosity. I’m not usually this kind to those associated with the Winchesters.” 

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.” 

He sighed and then crouched down in front of you. “Let’s not lie to each other, ok? Honor, right? I know you remember things. You’ve been having dreams.” 

“Those are just dreams! You can’t seriously believe those mean anything?” you scoffed, tired of people pushing you for information you didn't have. Mandy had spent the last three months telling you the dreams meant nothing, all for her to bring you here, where everyone, including herself, talked about them like they held information that could change the fate of the world. It was infuriating to be played with like this. 

“Oh, but they do,” he challenged, “They mean much more than you realize.” 

“Look, let’s just cut to the chase. What are you going to do with me?” 

Crowley smirked, as if he were pleased with your directness. “I’ve decided to keep you here as ransom. As long as you’re in my clutches, Moose and Squirrel won’t try to finish what you’ve started.” 

“I still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I didn’t start anything!” you cried. 

Crowley leaned in closer to you and you eyed the length of chain with the large, metal clasp at the end. He was close enough now and you could reach the chain. Your plan was working. 

“I sincerely hope you’re telling the truth. I have methods to determine whether you’re lying or not, dear. And the consequences for lying to me are much more serious than this paltry setup.” 

You thought of Mandy. That wasn’t going to happen to you. 

“I don’t give a damn about your consequences,” you spat, picking up the chain and slinging it at Crowley, clocking him on the side of the head and shoving him out of your way as you sprinted to the door. “Someone! Help me!” you shouted, banging against the door with your fists, unable to open it. 

“Ow!” Crowley shouted, sounding more annoyed than injured. “I wish you hadn’t done that.” 

Suddenly you felt like your throat was constricting. You threw your hands up to your neck, gasping for breath with no success. Your vision became blurry and you sunk to the ground, eyes watering and consciousness fading. Then you were released. You drew in a loud, raspy breath, coughing and wheezing through your open airway, crouching on all fours. 

You could hear Crowley approaching you. “You need to understand something. I am the king. You are the prisoner. There is no escaping!” 

You couldn’t look up at him, still catching your breath. It had felt like he was choking you without his hands, but that was impossible. It didn’t make any sense. It had to be some cruel trick. 

“I honestly believed you were lying to me about what you remember,” he continued, “You always have been that stubborn and clever, but after that little show, I believe you now. You of all people should know that you can’t hurt a demon with a measly little chain.” 

You looked up at him now. Your body was shaking and you were terrified, your mind still out of sorts from the assault, but you weren’t going to let this psychopath break you. 

“You’re not a king. You’re a pathetic, sick man and you won’t get away with this!” you hissed. 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “That really hurt my feelings, Y/N. Now, out of my way.” 

He flicked his wrist and you went flying across the room, smacking against the wall, the back of your head cracking against the stone and your back sliding down the abrasive surface until you slumped on the floor. The last thing you saw was a mixture of stars and black circles floating across your vision over an image of Crowley exiting your cell. The room went dark, from either blacking out or the lights being snuffed, you weren’t sure, and he slammed the door shut. 

***************************************** 

Zara led Sam and Dean to an abandoned warehouse. They pulled into the parking lot, eyeing the building with suspicion. They weren’t uneasy because of the time of night or the neighborhood, but about trusting the reaper who had still given them little information about her business here. They knew how these setups worked and were both preparing themselves to turn on Zara if needed, with no second guessing. 

“This is a door to hell?” Dean asked, pulling the keys out of the ignition. 

“What? You don’t trust me?” Zara smirked. 

Dean had no comment, only a threatening glare. 

“Tough crowd. Yes, it’s a door to hell. There are quite a few scattered through the world. Like the one in Kansas City. I led Y/N to that one. Seems I have a knack for helping your family.” 

Dean turned back to glance at Sam, who was staring at Zara with shock and deepening mistrust. 

“You did what?” he said. 

“You really had no idea about what she was up to, did you? Wonder why that is,” she chuckled. 

“Just shut up and get us inside,” Sam ordered, stepping out of the car. 

Zara exited without a word, leaning against the passenger door of the Impala as Sam and Dean double checked their weapons and concocted a makeshift plan in hushed tones on the other side of the car, opting to leave the female liability out of the equation. When they finished, Zara pushed herself off the car and they followed her across the parking lot. 

“Now, I’m not sure what part of hell this will open to,” Zara explained, stopping outside the door, “I can’t always control that. So just follow me and let’s hope we don’t have to wander through halls of tortured souls.” 

Zara placed a hand to the door handle and pulled it open without so much as an incantation or any hint of magic, but it was easy to see that the inside was not an abandoned factory. They could all smell the foul scent wafting out the door and see the fiery glow emanating from the doorway before they stepped inside. The scene was all too familiar to Sam and Dean. 

“Perfect! This is the exact hallway we need. We can go straight down this to Crowley’s throne room.” Zara took off and Sam and Dean briskly followed her. 

They weren’t put at ease by the convenience of the hallway leading straight to Crowley. Instead, they worried that this entrance was *too easy, so they kept their eyes peeled for any movement down the hall or any shadiness from Zara. They had passed a few doors on their right, wondering what was on the other side of them, when Zara suddenly stopped and threw one open. 

“Quick! Get in here! There’s a couple demons standing down the hall!” she whispered. 

“A couple demons are no problem for us,” Dean protested. 

“If you want any element of surprise at all, then you’ll go this way,” Zara spat. 

_That_ they did want, so they followed her directions, slipping into another dark hall highlighted by a fiery glow and a worse stench. Wailing and babbling and crying echoed off the walls, but Zara wasn’t phased. She pushed past them and said, “Come on, we need to hurry.” 

As they walked down the hall, it became clear that this was one of the hallways Zara had hoped to avoid earlier. It held tortured souls behind bars in various states of existence. Some looked worse than others, but Sam and Dean tried not to stare any directly in the face. It was difficult to avoid, as many were crying out for help or stretching out their hands. Sam hoped they wouldn't see your face amongst these cells. 

They took many turns in the horrifying halls, following Zara’s lead, winding through the stench-filled tunnels. As they traveled deeper into hell, it became apparent that they wouldn’t be able to find their way back out again. Sam and Dean glanced at each other, knowing that they would have to keep a close eye on their reaper tour guide once they reached Crowley. 

They finally came to the end of a hall where there was a rather large door and the Winchesters braced themselves for entrance to the throne room. It looked like the kind of magnificent door that would lead there, but when Zara pulled it open, they saw what looked like an abandoned storage closet. The only magnificent aspect of the room was how many cobwebs were hanging across the walls and items inside. 

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Dean asked. 

“What do I look like? An imbecile? I know my way around here,” Zara said as she entered the room. “See that door there?” She pointed to a slender, single panel door on the other side of the room. “That’s the door you want. Go straight through there and you’ll find Crowley.” 

“And Y/N is through there, too?” Sam asked. 

“Don’t know that for sure, but she’s here somewhere. You guys will figure something out.” 

“Wait, you’re not coming with us?” 

“Nope. This is where I leave you, boys. Can’t have the King of Hell after me. It makes my job a whole lot harder. Good luck.” 

And Zara was gone. 

“Well, wasn’t that surprising,” Dean grunted. 

“Yeah. Let’s just get in there and find Y/N,” Sam said. 

“Well, here goes nothing.” 

Dean pushed the door open. The next room was relatively empty, but they knew they were in the right place. They stood just inside the doorway, assessing their surroundings. Crowley was sitting on his throne to their right, talking to a couple of demons, the meeting partially blocked by columns. There didn’t appear to be anyone else in the room, so they gave each other a nod, and walked out to the center of the room, guns drawn, Dean staying on the right side and Sam moving across the room. 

“Alright, discussion’s over Crowley!” Dean shouted. 

The king looked up, not terribly surprised about the Winchesters’ presence. His henchmen immediately took a defensive stance, though, waiting on orders from their king. 

“Hello boys! I’ve been expecting you,” Crowley said. 

As they half-expected, this was looking more and more like a setup. 

“Yeah, we figured the reaper tipped you off,” Dean said. 

“A reaper, hm? I haven’t heard a peep from one of them, but I know you two. You always find a way to stick your noses in my business.” 

“This is _our_ business,” Sam said. 

“Mostly mine. But just out of curiosity, what reaper led you here? Seems I need to know who to torture next.” 

“Her name’s Zara,” Dean answered. 

Crowley chuckled, no longer perturbed about someone leading them in, making Sam and Dean more nervous than before. He seemed surprised by nothing, not their arrival, not how they got there, not even who led them there. 

“Ah, now she’s one of my favorites, you know. Always willing to bring a few extra souls to hell if I require them. I usually reward her quite nicely, too.” 

“What does any of that have to do with this? Where’s Y/N!” Sam yelled. 

“You’ve been played, boys! Zara doesn’t want hell boarded up same as me. She let me in on Y/N’s plans and she led you two numskulls here, probably hoping I’d just kill all of you. And you fell right into her trap.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean growled, “You’re going to tell us where Y/N is and then we might not kill you.” 

“And what leverage do you have?” 

“This,” Dean announced as he shot a bullet into one of Crowley’s legs. “Sam! Go find Y/N! I’ll hold off these two!” he shouted. 

Crowley was shocked as he realized he couldn’t go anywhere. The bullets were laced with devils’ traps, rendering him powerless as Dean fought his guards. Sam took off towards the large double doors across from Crowley. He didn’t know where the dungeons were, but Crowley said you were locked up, so that’s where you had to be. He would find them, though. He had to. 

As soon as Sam pulled open one of the doors and sprinted into the hallway, two demons were waiting for him on the other side. He wasted no time. He plunged his knife into the one closest to him, shooting a bullet into the torso of the other one. Then he turned around and used his knife to finish the job. 

After checking quickly for any more demons, Sam realized he was back in the first hallway. He recognized all the doors, now along his left side as he faced the exit. He assumed they all led to more hallways full of soul prisons, although he didn’t know that for sure. It made the most sense to him, though. Then he remembered seeing one door to his left when he first entered earlier and so he sprinted down the hall, hoping desperately that it was the right one. He would have to trust his instincts now and not waste time on second guesses. He had only paused for a few seconds to decide where to go, but it felt too long. This time you really were on the other side of one of these doors, waiting on him inside a prison. 

This door was heavy to open and as soon as he was on the other side, he knew he was in the right place. His heart picked up more speed, as if that were possible after fighting and sprinting, and he was filled with absolute hope and reassurance as he saw a single cell door across this new hall. He ran to it, throwing it open to check inside, but you weren’t in that room. He checked three more while calling out your name before finally finding the right one. 

He flung the door open, skidding to a stop as he saw your figure lying on the floor across from him, your head slowly rising up from the ground. 

“H-hello?” you whispered, sounding groggy. 

He almost collapsed right then at the sound of your voice, a sound he had wanted so desperately to hear for the past three months. He had missed it so badly. But instead, he ran over to you, setting his gun down and helping you sit up all the way. You wore a white t-shirt that was dirty and wrinkled, you had been using an over-shirt as a pillow, and your hair was knotted, showing that you had been in here for some time in unfavorable conditions. 

“Y/N, god, I thought I lost you,” Sam gushed, checking you over for injuries. He noticed blood on the back of your head. “I’m getting you out of here, ok? Dean’s here, too. We've got you,” Sam said, noticing how confused you looked. He thought it was just the head injury. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, backing away from Sam’s touch, “Who are you?” 

Sam’s hands froze and his face twisted. How hard had you hit your head? “It’s me, Sam. Dean and I came to get you.” His voice quivered with fear of what Crowley had done to you 

“I don’t know any Sam or Dean,” you stated, scooting further away from him. 

Sam felt dizzy, like the whole world was tilting under him and he had no idea how to breathe anymore. It took every ounce of control to keep himself from toppling over. He fought back tears as he figured out what to say to you to convince you to come with him. 

“Look, my brother and I, we’ll get you home, ok? Just come with me. I’ll get you out of here.” 

This man was pleading with you and he seemed sincere. You were ready to leave, fragments of your memory returning to you, replacing the eagerness to escape that you possessed earlier. Had Crowley slammed you against the wall? You nodded and allowed Sam to help you, holding his hand as he pulled you up. He held it lightly as he walked you out of your cell. You were disoriented, scrambling to remember what had happened to you when you last saw Crowley while following this strange man towards the exit. You almost didn’t notice when Sam stopped just in front of the door, dropping your hand. 

“Dean should be here any minute,” he said, his voice shaking and his eyes avoiding your gaze. You kept watching him though, a curiosity about this man filling your mind. You wondered why he seemed so upset. 

You both heard unknown footsteps down the hall and Sam lifted his gun as you sank back against the door, ready to flee if needed. 

“Sam?” a voice whispered. 

Sam lowered his gun. “We’re here, Dean,” he answered. 

Another man emerged from the darkness of the hall, looking beat up with bruises on his cheeks and a cut on his arm. 

“I suggest we get going. Crowley’s going to dig that bullet out of his leg sooner or later,” he said. 

Seeing the two men standing together gave you a terrible case of deja vue. This situation was so familiar, so similar to your dreams. Suddenly you wanted to bolt. You didn't want anything else that reminded you of this horrible situation, but these men had just saved your life. You didn’t exactly have anywhere to go either, with Mandy being gone. Going back to that house felt wrong now and so you waited to see what they were going to do. 

“Alright, let’s go,” Sam said, turning around, still avoiding your eyes. 

You expected harsh light when they opened the door, but it was the middle of the night with no indication of just how late it was, which meant you had probably been passed out on the floor for a few hours. You followed Sam out, Dean behind you, and they walked to a car parked across the lot. A classic, black car that looked extremely well cared for, you noted. 

Sam opened a backdoor for you and you quickly got in, remembering that the men could still be on your tail. Sam and Dean got in, slamming their doors, and Dean had the engine running and the tires squealing out of the parking lot in no time. 

“Y/N, you doing ok back there?” Dean asked, “I noticed some blood on the back of your shirt.” 

You placed your hand on your back, wincing in pain. There was some sort of scratch or cut there, but you nodded at Dean, still not understanding how they knew your name. Your best guess was that they were cops sent to find you after someone noticed your absence from work. 

“We’re gonna get you home, ok? Don’t worry about anything. We’ll figure out this mess later,” he continued, “Just get some rest. We’ve got a long drive.” 

You were so confused, not understanding what he was getting at. There wasn’t any mess to clean up, except for the one they left behind, which wasn’t your mess anyway. You hadn’t done anything except get kidnapped. And there was no reason for a long drive. The police station wasn’t that far away and neither was your house. 

“Dean,” Sam interrupted, his solemn tone letting his brother know that something was drastically wrong. “I don’t think she remembers anything.”


	8. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean take you back to the bunker and try to get some answers about what Crowley did to you, but you’re wanting some answers, too. Nobody knows exactly how to handle the situation either, but you feel as if you’re in good hands. Until you take a wrong turn and end up in Sam’s room.

_“I don’t think she remembers anything.”_

First Crowley, now these guys? You wondered if anyone was going to believe you while you pleaded ignorant to the history they all assumed you knew. Crowley was insane and so you gave him a pass on insisting you were lying about your connections, but these brothers actually seemed normal and level-headed. Talk of lost memories, demons, and hell was the last thing you expected from the men who rescued you. 

“What do you mean?” Dean asked, glancing back at you and over to Sam, growing concerned as you gawked at the front seat. 

You were tired, achy, hungry, and disoriented. There was the possibility of a concussion and you weren’t sure of the extent of all your injuries. You were confused about what was happening, thrown into the mess of psychopaths. Your state shouldn’t be a surprise to either of them, but apparently Dean needed an explanation, so you gave him one. 

“He means I don’t know either of you, but for some reason everyone I’ve met in the past two days seems to think I should. You must be the Winchesters, yeah?” The words came flying out with a lot more bite than you intended, but the aforementioned problems were to blame for that. And the fact that you were riding in the car of strangers who acted acted like they knew more about your life than you did. 

Dean couldn’t help but turn around and stare at you and you thought he might run off the road because he wasn’t watching it. His eyes told you he was considerably freaked out now, too. 

“Yeeeah. We are,” he affirmed, turning back around. He seemed like he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t know what that was yet. 

Sam, on the other hand, stayed silent, staring at the road in front of them. You couldn’t see his face, but he looked tense and his lack of response worried you. He seemed a lot more upset about you “not remembering” than Dean did. These men were shaping up to be just as delusional as Crowley. 

“Look, just drop me off at my house. Thank you for getting me out of, whatever that was, but I really don’t want any more trouble.” Whoever these Winchesters were, you didn’t want any part of their drama with Crowley. 

“Sorry, but no can do. Crowley will still be looking for you and he’ll know exactly where to find you. You have to stay with us,” Dean said. He spoke firmly, letting you know there wasn’t another option, but he tried to be apologetic about your situation. 

You didn’t know whether it was the reality of what happened finally hitting you, exhaustion, or feeling like you were being kidnapped again, but you began crying. It wasn’t loud or wailing, but bouts of tears were shoving their way up your throat and out your eyes and you buried your face in your hands, feeling utterly helpless. You were scared, having fully appreciated the events of the past few days now that the immediate threat had been eliminated. Your mind could think about everything that happened from a less rational and pragmatic perspective, allowing the emotional effects to surface. 

In your distress, you didn’t notice the passing glances between the brothers, Dean pushing Sam to talk and not understanding why he was being so passive, and Sam finally giving in when he heard an attempt at a silent sob in the back seat. 

He turned around, reaching a hand over the back of his seat and placing it tentatively on your right knee. It was an overly polite gesture and it caused you bring your hands from your face. Sam focused on you in an almost desperate way, layers of hurt and disappointment hidden under what was needed to reassure you at the moment. He was all you saw while he spoke to you. 

“We’re here to help you, Y/N. We’re not going to hurt you. We’ll tell you everything that’s going on when we get back to our place, I promise, but for now, please stay with me.” 

_Me._ Why had he said me? He meant us, him and Dean, and maybe he messed up because he was talking to you personally right now, but it seemed more like a Freudian slip. It was the most reassuring thing you’d heard in months, though, and so you let it slide. The cocktail of his voice, gaze, and words just about calmed everything inside you and you realized he probably reassured people for a living, if rescuing kidnappees were his job. He was scary good at it because you found yourself nodding and wiping your cheeks. His hand didn’t leave your knee until he smiled softly at you and you returned it, relaxing into the seat, which smarted because you had some unknown injury on your back. 

You slept almost the entire ride to their home, waking up whenever they stopped for gas or bathroom breaks without really keeping track of time. The first time they stopped, Sam offered you a pillow out of the trunk and you gladly accepted it. A few hours into the trip, your stomach was growling at you fiercely, but you didn’t want to overstep your boundaries. They seemed in a hurry and not willing to take the time to stop for food, so you didn’t mention it. 

The sun was high in the sky by the time Dean pulled up to a stone structure protruding out of the ground as if most of it were beneath the surface. He rolled right into a garage, not giving you much time to examine the outside and you were wide awake now, taking in the expanse of classic cars and fluorescent lighting. You barely noticed when Dean killed the engine and opened his door, both of the men waiting for you to get out. Then they seemed to realize that you had never seen this place before and Sam took the liberty of politely informing you about your location after coming around to open your door. 

“Y/N, this is the bunker where we live. This is the garage and we’ll take you inside to the library where we can get you cleaned up, ok?” he explained as he stood in front of you, holding the door and watching you closely. 

“And where is the bunker exactly?” you asked while your eyes darted around the enormous garage. 

“Lebanon, Kansas.” 

Your eyes snapped to Sam. “Kansas?” 

“Yeah. Come on, we’ll get you settled in, ok?” Sam noticed how quickly you were becoming distressed, being so far away from what you thought was home. They hadn’t exactly told you where they were going and he hated making you feel worse, but he didn’t know the right way to handle this situation. He was relieved when you got out of the car, though, and he thought maybe he was helping you even in his ignorance. 

_Looks like I’m not in Kansas anymore._ Except you actually were in Kansas and it was ironic how the phrase still fit your current situation. With your arms crossed tightly against you, you followed Sam down some stairs. It seemed extremely odd to be going down, not through or up, but you trusted that he knew the way around his home. And then it was through a couple rooms, one of which was a kitchen, and then through a hallway into what had to be the library. And what a messy library it was. Hardly anything remained on the shelves. Most of the books were lying on the floor or tables. And there were some boxes and files lying out as well. 

The impression of Sam and Dean that you received from the room was that they were educated, held important positions, and were possibly eccentric. The collection of books was impressive, despite most of them being on the floor at the moment, the relics on the walls expensive, and the atmosphere secretive. But their clothes and demeanor didn’t exactly match up with those clues and you determined their occupation and lives to be a mystery, at least until they explained more to you. 

“I’m sorry for the mess, we uh,” Sam began moving books out of your way and off of a table, “have been doing some organizing.” 

You just nodded and then Sam pulled a chair out for you, standing next to it, retaining an overly polite stance that actually made your interactions with him awkward instead of reassuring. He was trying too hard to make you feel comfortable while Dean moved about the bunker as always, finding a first aid kit and dropping it onto the table with an “Alright, let’s get you checked out.” 

You lowered yourself onto the chair with wobbly certainty, but there was no hesitancy in Dean, who opened the red and white box and told you to turn around so he could check your back--no funny business, of course, yet he talked with a smirk-- and you lifted the back of your shirt. 

“Yeah, you’ve got a nasty scrape back here. You remember what happened?” 

Now that you could answer. It was the first “don’t you remember…?” question that made sense. 

“I think Crowley threw me against a wall and I slid down it, but he was halfway across the room when I hit the wall. That’s how I got this, too,” you motioned to the back of your head, wincing slightly as Dean wiped an antiseptic across your back. 

He eyed Sam when you mentioned Crowley, like they knew something you didn’t. “Well, if you want, we could explain it to you, but it’s going to sound crazy. Sam, why don’t you make yourself useful and check her head?” 

Next you felt fingers moving your hair on the back of your head, gently grazing a massive bump and small gash, cleaning it as well. Dean was waiting on you to answer him, but you had a feeling you already knew what he was going to say. You’d caught a glimpse of a few exposed book pages. 

“Let me guess, Crowley used his ‘demon’ powers to fling me across the room? Oh, and to choke me before that?” You didn’t want to hear that explanation again, but as much as you hated to admit it, you weren’t going to deny how your dreams seemed to be fitting much of what Crowley had said to you and what you experienced in the dungeon. And bunkers with massive libraries of books on mythical creatures and beings weren’t just constructed to mess with a single woman’s mind. 

Both brothers stopped what they were doing, wondering what Crowley had told you. 

“Uh, yeah, that’s it,” Dean said. 

“He choked you?” came out of Sam’s mouth. 

“After I hit him with a chain, yeah. He didn’t seem too happy about that.” 

Dean laughed and shook his head, muttering something about “not surprised,” but then Sam was in front of you, bending over, his wide eyes right in front of yours, asking permission to check your neck. You gave it to him. His touch was so polite and unassuming. It's not that Dean wasn’t being cautious, but he seemed a lot more comfortable with touching you than did Sam. You wished Sam would act more natural around you, though. His hesitancy was beginning to bother you. 

“Ok, I got some bandages on your back, Sam cleaned up the cut on your head. You want some questions answered now or later?” Dean asked you, standing up from his crouched position. 

Sam pulled his hands from your neck, not finding any visible bruising. 

“I would like a shower. And some food. And then we can talk over dinner while I’m not starving,” you said. 

“Alright, Sam, show the girl to the showers and I’ll be back with the grub.” 

“Right,” Sam said, “This way.” 

Sam went through a hallway and stepped inside a room while you waited outside, emerging with a change of clothes and a towel for you. You didn’t bother to ask why he had clothes your size somewhere in his home. You figured they’d had women over before or maybe a sister. What did concern you, though, was that the showers were all in one room and you made a mental note to make sure you were alone before entering next time. 

While you showered, Sam made his way back to the library, sinking into a chair and finding himself staring at the used contents of the first aid kit scattered on the table while he sat alone with his thoughts. This was unexpected, to say the least, for you to not know who he was or anything about yourself. As much as he was relieved to have you home again, safe under his watch, his heart was breaking every time you did or said something that revealed how much you didn’t remember. He didn’t how you would take all the information he and Dean would give you either, or if you would even believe them. There was a chance you would try to run far away once the crazy came spilling out, so he was keeping his distance to avoid alarming you. It was hard, though. He thought Dean was acting too comfortable around you and that it would send up red flags for you, but you seemed to be doing ok right now. 

He would have to take this at your pace. He noticed small details, things you’ve said or done, that gave him hope that whatever Crowley had done to you was failing. Sam wouldn’t force your memories back on you until you were ready, though. That is, if you could get them back. A call to Castiel might be in order sometime soon if he couldn’t get through to you. 

You emerged from the hall into the library then, seeing Sam in a chair, leaning on an elbow that was propped up on the table, alone amongst the disaster of a room. He looked weary and deep in thought and you wondered when the last time he had slept was. You cleared your throat to announce your presence. 

“Oh, hey Y/N,” he said, straightening up, “You found your way back here?” 

“Yeah,” you drawled, throwing a thumb over your back towards the doorway, “I don’t really know how. I guess this place is a lot less confusing than I originally thought.” 

Sam smiled and nodded. “So, how are you feeling?” 

You tiptoed over, stepping around things on the floor, to sit beside, or more across, from Sam, considering he was sitting sideways in his seat. “Physically or emotionally?” 

He chuckled, understanding that the question was a little broad. “Let’s start with physically.” 

“Well, showering and not getting your back wet is really hard, but that water pressure is ah-mazing. It did wonders for my muscles. Let me tell you, sleeping on a stone floor is not good for your back.” 

Sam was taken aback for a moment. You had commented on the water pressure the first time he brought you to the bunker, too. Maybe bits and pieces of your memory would come back without too much effort from him and Dean as you found yourself in a familiar setting. He didn't want you pushed to do anything that might scare you or upset you too much. He’d much rather it be a gradual process than a painful or distressing one. 

“We’ll get you a room with a bed to sleep in tonight,” he assured you. 

“That sounds great.” 

You looked around the room, tapping your fingers on the table. There were swords and leather chairs and pictures of old men in suits, all of them piquing your interest. After you had talked to Sam and Dean about what happened to you, you were going to ask about this bunker. 

Sam was watching you, waiting to see what happened as you looked around the room. You seemed to be really taking it in and he took you in as you did so, watching your eyes dart around. You were wearing a familiar pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, your hair still damp and wet spots on the back of your shirt. He didn't want to linger on your form too long, unless you caught him staring, but it had been so long since he'd seen the curves of your body, the softness of your hair, and the brightness in your eyes, all of which was noticeable despite your being extremely fatigued. He wanted nothing more than to scoop you up, carry you to bed, and hold you while you slept, but he couldn’t. 

“How are you doing emotionally?” he asked. 

You turned your head sharply towards him, as if you had forgotten that you were in conversation, with a look on your face of mixed bravado and distress, the former attempting to hide the latter. 

“Pretty good considering. It’s not like the past few months have been a walk in the park either. I just need to binge eat some donuts or something and sleep for like three days straight.” You laughed it off. 

But Sam frowned at you, seeing right through your facade and worrying about what had been going on for the past three months. Even if you didn’t know who you were, your mannerisms were still the same and Sam could detect your distress. But before he could say anything else, Dean returned with bags of takeout in hand and a single grocery sack. 

Back in the kitchen, which was messy too, with contents of cabinets on the counter rather than on shelves, Dean had spread the food out and you took your pick of burgers and fries, greedily digging in and enjoying the first truly fatty and indulgent meal you’d had in ages. Sam and Dean watched you for a minute, both of them noticing that your appetite seemed the same, before diving into the question part of the meal. 

“So, uh, Y/N, do you want to talk about what happened?” Sam started off the conversation, easing into it. 

“I thought you were going to answer my questions,” you half-teased. 

“Well, I think we should get a sense of what happened to you. It might help us put some of the pieces together.” 

“Ok. Well, I guess it kind of started three months ago,” you said, noticing Sam and Dean glancing at each other, “I started having these weird dreams and Mandy said they were nothing. That turned out to be a huge lie, and-” 

“Hang on a second. Who’s Mandy?” Dean interrupted. 

“My roommate. I moved in with her like, a year ago. Worst mistake of my life.” 

Dean cleared his throat, shifting in his seat, and his nervousness made you nervous. “And where is she now?” 

You looked down at your food, picturing her death vividly, the memory fresh in your mind. Your answer was quiet. “She’s dead.” 

“Y/N, what happened?” Sam was speaking now, overwrought with concern and not caring if it was too much. 

“I don’t really know how to explain it, her neck, it just, snapped.” Saying it out loud was more difficult than you imagined. 

With your head cast down, you looked up at Sam, whose jaw was tensed and his eyes trained on you. 

“And you saw that?” Sam knew that on a regular day, it wouldn’t have jarred you, had you known it was a witch, but you were a civilian right now with no memory of the all the horrible things you’ve seen. You must have been terrified, having witnessed that. 

“Yeah, but it’s fine. I mean, she ended up bringing me to my kidnappers so I can’t really feel too sorry for her,” you attempted to joke. 

“And what were these dreams you mentioned?” Dean asked, shifting the subject because Sam was getting too emotional at the moment. 

“I don’t really understand them, but I kept having recurring dreams about these...two men,” you hesitated not wanting Sam and Dean to think you were talking about them. “And it was like we were all hunting, things? Like spirits and stuff. It was weird, I know. And then other times they’d be about a family. It was just so weird because they were always the same people. Then I’d wake up with intense headaches and my emotions all crazy and it was just not a fun thing.” You laughed at the end to pass it off as Not a Big Deal, but you could tell neither Winchester bought that. 

“It’s not as crazy as you think it sounds,” Dean said, taking another bite of his burger. 

“Y/N, there’s really no good way to tell you this but, your friend Mandy, she was a witch. Dean and I found paraphernalia in her office at your house,” Sam was straining to tell you this, you could tell, but you sat there, waiting for him to go on, frozen at the absurdity of the situation, but there was something nagging at the back of your mind that made it all seem not so crazy. Maybe it was all the things you witnessed and heard while with Crowley. Maybe it was being in the bunker with these men, images of your dreams constantly popping up like your iPhone notifications, notifying you of something, except you didn’t know what the dreams were trying to say to you. “And she was working with Crowley, as I’m sure you found out. He’s a demon, Y/N. That’s how he was able to ch- to do all those things to you.” 

Sam and Dean watched you, Sam with deep concern, Dean like he was expecting you to freak out at any second. They were both ready to calm you or give a rebuttal if you disagreed with their revelation, but neither of those were needed. 

“I think, that if you had told me this three days ago, I would’ve shoved you out my door and then called the cops, but I’ve seen some weird things, heard some even weirder things, and I’m like this close,” you held up your index finger and thumb, “to just believing everyone because it seems like a lot more effort not to.” 

It was weird, looking at them after you said that, because they were awfully surprised and Dean looked almost like a proud parent while Sam could’ve just experienced some sort of happy heartbreak. That man was a mess of emotions right now and you couldn’t for the life of you guess why. 

“I just have one question, though,” you said, “Where do you guys fit into all of this?” 

Dean let Sam have the floor on this one, as if it were his question and his only to answer. 

“We’re just, people who know a lot about this stuff and hunt it down in our spare time,” he said. 

That answer made your continual state of deja vu that much weirder and that much more like not-deja-vu. They were the Winchesters, whom you were supposed to know, and they felt like the men in your dreams and now, you found out they did what those men did, too. Hunting. Now this was getting to be too much. 

You had eaten all of your food and were quickly realizing you were still exhausted and needed to sleep on a nice bed under warm and comfy sheets. And you needed to process everything alone for awhile. If you told them that you thought they were the men in your dreams, they would be the ones shoving you out the door next. You obviously didn’t know each other and you weren’t about to ruin your safety now by making yourself out to be the crazy one, so you weren’t going to say anything. Yet. 

“I think I need a nap. Or like eight solid hours of sleep. Can I get that bed now?” you asked, avoiding responding fully to what Sam had told you. 

“Yeah, of course. There’s empty bedrooms on the left side of that hall. Do you want me to show you?” 

“No, I think I’ve got it. Thank you.” 

Once you were out of sight and gone long enough for them to assume you had found a room, Dean finally got a good look at his brother, who wasn’t doing too well. 

“I know this is, uh, a big, stinking mess, but, how’re you doing with all this, Sammy?” 

Where did Sam even begin? He was heartbroken at all the things that had been done to you. He felt like it was his fault because he didn’t get to you sooner. He was constantly holding himself back from reaching out to you--to place a hand on your shoulder as he stood by you or to rub your back while you were in distress. He was missing all these little touches and he didn’t have you back yet, not fully. Unless you gained your memories back, you would probably want to return to your house after they took care of Crowley. There was a glimmer of hope, though, because even if you didn’t realize it yet, the dreams were memories and you’d been having them since the day you disappeared and were placed in that home. He just hoped you’d realize that before you asked to go home. 

“I’m holding up,” he answered. “I just hope she’s going to be ok.” 

“She’s strong. I’m sure she will be. We’ll call Cas tomorrow and see if he can help her.” 

“No, not yet. I don’t want to freak her out. Let’s talk to her some more and wait for her to come around. I have a feeling she might.” 

* * *

The next morning you awoke with a wonderful smell wafting into your bedroom, a combination of coffee and baking cinnamon. It was the most pleasant way to wake up and you found yourself excited for breakfast, barely feeling the aches remaining in your muscles. When you shuffled into the kitchen, groggy and not having bothered to fix your hair or change, Sam and Dean stopped what they were doing, which was pouring coffee and checking something in the oven respectively, and you said a short good morning before sitting down at the table. 

After watching you walk in and sit down at the table like you had so many times before, Sam slid a mug of steaming coffee in front of you and you sipped it, amazed at how perfect it was, made just the way you liked it. Then you caught a glimpse of Dean pulling a tray of cinnamon rolls out of the oven and he must have noticed your fixation on them because he chuckled at you and said, “Picked these up last night. Thought you might like them.” 

“They look really good. I can't even remember the last time I've gotten to have something like this for breakfast. Mandy always had English muffins or yogurt in the house.” 

For a second, the same masked sadness that was constantly on Sam’s face flashed across Dean’s. 

“So what do you do? Got a job?” he asked, back to his normal self, making polite conversation. Apparently cinnamon rolls wasn't a good topic for breakfast. 

“Had a job is more like it. I'm sure they've decided to fire me by now, if they even noticed I was gone.” 

“What was it?” 

“Secretary. At an accounting firm. I know, it's lame,” you said, noticing the odd looks on their faces, like that was the weirdest thing you could've been doing. 

“You're kidding?” Dean wondered as he set a plate with two iced cinnamon rolls in front of you. 

“Sadly, no. Oh well though. Time to turn over a new page, right?” 

Breakfast with Sam and Dean was awfully homey. Despite the stainless steel table and the plain tile walls, the kitchen felt warm and inviting, the exact opposite of how living at Mandy’s had been. Conversation with the brothers was easy. They treated you like your concerns mattered. They made an effort to make you feel at home. If you could remain here until your case was solved, you wouldn't complain. 

After breakfast, you dismissed yourself to get dressed after Sam told you they would be working on helping you out some more today. You exited the kitchen, assuming you could find your way back to the same room you slept in, but you got it all backwards and walked into a bedroom that looked a lot more lived in than yours. 

“What the hell?” you whispered, yours eyes trailing over numerous pictures of you and Sam, together, hanging on the wall. You felt sick and dizzy, walking up to get a closer look at the pictures. You had gone from one psychopath’s home to another's. Only this one had a repulsive obsession with you. Had he photoshopped all of these photos? Where did he get the pictures of you in the first place? You no longer considered Sam and Dean to be law enforcement or people who truly wanted to help you. 

You noticed a drawer slightly ajar on the side of the bed that had a separate blanket and pillow case. Sliding it open, you gulped as you found more pictures of you and some of a family of four. You shuffled through the stack, becoming increasingly disturbed as you saw more pictures of yourself. You stopped at a professional family portrait, though, placing the rest back on the table as you brought the picture closer to your face. At the image of the parents and two young girls, your hands shook violently, the memory of the dead girl lying on the floor in your dream flashing in your mind. That same girl was in this picture. 

A white hot pain shot across your head, the worst headache you've had yet, and you found yourself falling to the ground, your vision going black and your sense of balance failing. You tried to catch yourself on the table, but all you did was knock something off as you hit the ground. 

Sam and Dean heard the crash and they called out your name without answer. Sam didn't hesitate to sprint towards the sound with the absence of a reply. In the hallway, he saw the door of his room ajar and he knew something was wrong. As he flew in, he saw you crumpled on the ground, holding your head, a picture of your family lying beside you. 

Running to crouch next to you, he called your name and turned you over, trying to bring you out of your fit, but your eyes remained closed and your face contorted in pain as Dean came in and saw Sam cradling you on the floor. But neither of them could do anything as you laid with your head on Sam’s lap, whimpering. They didn't know what was happening.


	9. The Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader re-gains her memory and is finally completely honest with Sam and Dean about what happened. (explicit suicide triggers at beginning of chapter)
> 
> Excerpt of the book is from  The Elegance of the Hedgehog  by Muriel Barbery

_“Dying must be a delicate passage, a sweet slipping away to rest. There are people who commit suicide by jumping out of the window of the fourth floor or swallowing bleach or even hanging themselves! That’s senseless! Obscene, even. What is the point of dying if not to ‘not’ suffer? I’ve devoted great care to planning how I’ll exit the scene: every month for the last year I’ve been pilfering a sleeping pill from…”_

You pinched a corner of the page of the novel you were reading, a French work translated into English. You were prepared to turn it, but not able to do so before Sam placed his hand over yours. He hadn’t reached the last line yet.

“You read _so_ fast,” he murmured after taking his hand down from yours. 

You continued to hold the book above both of your faces as you laid sprawled on a blanket in the middle of a field. It was actually more of a grassy patch outside of the bunker, but for now it was your dreamy picnic date, complete with a dollar store cooler and sandwich supplies. Sam had splurged on some wine, though. 

“You read so slow. Here, you hold it while you finish the page.” You pushed the book over his face and he went to grasp it, but you timed the release wrong, letting the book go before he had a hold on it. It smacked him square on the nose.

You shot up, throwing your hands over him, letting them hover. “Oh, I’m so sorry! Are you ok?”

Sam picked the book off his face, letting it close as he sat up and placed it beside him. He rubbed the tip of his nose. “It’s fine. You didn’t have to drop it on me just to prove a point, though.”

“I wasn’t-” But you stopped as you saw the smirk you knew all too well spread across Sam’s face, eventually lighting up every feature, bringing out the dimples and the twinkling eyes.

“I do have to ask,” he began, changing the subject, “why you picked that book for our reading date. It’s already such a heavy read. What twelve year old feels that dissatisfied with life?”

You shrugged, looking off into the distance at the forest behind the bunker. “I don’t know, it just seemed like a good read. I think the girl's going to change her mind eventually. You’ve got to admit, it’s pretty compelling so far.”

“Agreed. Although...” Sam rolled over until he was close enough to cup one hand behind your head and use the other to guide you gently down by your shoulder, with no protest from you at his touch, until you were flat on your back looking up at the man who was now lying over you. “I find your lips much more compelling at the moment.”

Giggling, you watched his eyes as they carefully roamed over your entire face while he descended closer to you until your lips met. You closed your eyes and focused only on that sensation, the moving of your mouths together and your fingers grasping at his soft shirt, and the warmth of your love hovering over you.

When you opened your eyes, the scenery had changed drastically. There was no warm glow of the setting sun, no wind through the grass, no blanket to lie on. You were standing in the middle of a dark living room, cold and disassociated, until Sam’s faint voice hummed louder and louder against your eardrums. That’s what had caused you to open your eyes, hearing him call your name. That, and his fingers gliding from the top of your head down the side and through your hair, gently but with pressure. When it all came together, the sounds and the feel of his fingers, he was bending in front of you, eye-to-eye, his lips moving with the shape of your name and calming reassurances. 

It had been the spirit of that young girl that did this to you, the one you were hunting. You had been expecting an older woman, but the child’s appearance rendered you unable to move or respond to Sam. It’s why he was standing in front of you now, having stalled the spirit with iron, trying to coax you back to reality. That’s right. The ghost was gone for now. Your hand floated up to grab Sam’s forearm. 

With the contact of your fingers against his skin, his pleading eyes became real in your mind and you opened your mouth so a jumble of words and sounds could spill out. “I’m sorry, she-I-I-”

“No, shhh. I’m taking you to the car. Let Dean and me handle this one.”

You nodded. Sam guided you outside, arms firm around your shoulders and then he left you in the backseat of the Impala, but not before kissing you firmly on the forehead. 

In all honesty, the spirit did not resemble your sister in the slightest. It had blonde hair and pale skin dressed in something frilly and impractical. Your sister was dark hair, freckles that sometimes were mistaken for dirt, and clothes that could’ve been worn by a boy and often looked like they had been. Even at seven, she had the shaping of a genuine tomboy. Had she lived longer than that limited number, she may have made a career in athletics. Or maybe her interests would have developed over the years. She would’ve been intelligent, same as you, same as your parents. She could’ve been a professor or an engineer or a chemist. Anything she would have wanted. But she never got the chance and that was completely your fault. You ran and hid in the closet instead of calling 911. Or grabbing her and hiding her with you. Or taking her place so that she could live and experience life, having all of her dreams at her fingertips. 

More than likely, after returning to the motel later, Sam would ask if you wanted to discuss what happened in the living room. He would want to know what was running through your mind at the moment in the hopes he could remedy some of the more intrusive thoughts, but they were the same thoughts as always and the conversation would repeat the pattern of so many others. You knew exactly what Sam would say if you bothered to repeat any of them.

_“Baby, you can’t blame yourself. You were only nine years old. Nine. There’s nothing you could’ve done and you know it.”_

_“Except I could’ve taken her place, Sam. It didn’t have to be her.”_

It never had to be her. It always could’ve been you, but you could never figure out why life had worked out in this unexplainable, unfair way, except for the fact that you had been cowardly enough to hide in the closet until a hunter came and found you, carrying you out and mistakenly allowing you to view the most horrific memory that you would ever possess. 

You could play out Sam’s rebuttals to your self-blaming almost as if he were standing before you now, speaking his mind freely, urging you to let go of the pain. In fact, you could almost hear the echo of his voice, coaxing you, pleading with you. His voice was strained and you didn’t understand why. It was only the same old conversation you’d ever had, except, when you began to truly pay attention to the words, they didn’t have anything to do with your sister or your guilt. They weren’t an argument. They were confused and worried, hushed and strenuous. They were saying your name, saying Dean’s name, talking about you, talking to Dean. 

Sam was having a conversation with Dean and you were...lying on a bed. Finally, you opened your eyes and realized that your resting place was not the backseat of the Impala, but rather on your bed in your room in the bunker. Sam and Dean stood at the foot of the bed in worried conversation until Sam noticed your opened eyes and said “wait” to Dean before rushing to the side of your bed in long strides. 

“Y/N, hey, everything's ok. You fell down,” he assured you.

You rubbed your forehead, an ache throbbing from the front of your head to the back, eliciting a small groan from you. “I was having the most vivid dream. You know that case a couple years back? With that child spirit? And I froze up because I saw that spirit and-” you stopped, realizing Sam and Dean were looking at you as if you were speaking Japanese. Were you speaking Japanese?

“Y/N?” Sam repeated that same, simple word, but this time with more feeling than before, as if his whole world had just come together after falling apart and he couldn't quite believe what he was witnessing.

Considering his expression, seeing the hope-brimmed eyes, your memory came together in spurts and strides, pieces of random events popping in and out of view. Crowley. The Trials. Mandy. The dungeon. The messy library. The pictures on the wall and in the drawer. 

You shot up and both Winchesters jerked towards you, stretching out their hands as if they needed to catch you. 

But you weren’t about to fall. You just needed to ask one question. “Sam, did all that, did all that really happen? Was I gone?”

When your eyes met Sam’s, his expression of relief tinged with sadness answered you. He nodded as an accompaniment to the emotions pouring out of his eyes because his voice would’ve failed him at the moment, watching you wake up knowing who you were and who he was. But when the apologies began pouring out of your mouth, as was always your knee jerk reaction, Sam forcefully hushed you, rushing to occupy the space beside you and then wrapping his arms around you and clutching you against him. One of his hands found its way through the hair on the back of your head, tangling in the already messy tresses, and the other was across your back and around your side, squeezing whatever part of you it could contact. 

As all the pieces of your collective memories, the real ones and the fake ones, shuffled together to form a semi-coherent picture of what happened to you, your own hands grasped at Sam’s back and your head buried itself into his chest with the help of his hand. You clung to him as every feeling of being lost, trapped, and frustrated rose up inside and you realized how scared you had been and were now. You thought of all the terrible things that had been done to you, both the first time you were brought to Crowley’s dungeon and the second, and the confusion you had felt while forced to become someone else. And then you felt deep regret for leaving Sam and making him worry so, clutching him tighter as you remembered seeing his face while you lay there on the dungeon floor, saying his name like a question. 

Sam pulled back, his arms and hands shifting position without leaving you, grasping your face, now wet with tear lines. “This is real? You know who you are?”

Tears spilled out of your closed eyes as you nodded and whispered, “Yes.”

Sam’s forehead gently fell against yours, the tension pulled out of him with the contact and a deep sigh.

“Please, don't ever do that again,” he whispered. 

Right now, you agreed with him, too tired and caught up in the moment to consider the trials you had undertaken and whether or not you would complete them. There was only your reunion, the sweet satisfaction of skin to skin contact and familiar smells and his warmth underneath your fingertips. Eventually, there would be a lot of things to talk about and apologize for, amends waiting to be made. Sam was happy to have you back now, but you imagined the feelings would wear off and be replaced with anger for what you had done. You had lied to him, ran off, and gotten yourself captured, made him worried sick and let him find out about your activities from demons. You wanted to savor this moment before all of that was brought up. 

Eventually, you and Sam pulled back from one another, not too far though. There was still constant physical contact, both of you making sure you had at least one hand on the other at all times. At some point, Dean had slipped out your room, quietly so as not to distract from your reunion. You and Sam could have made it last through the night, neither of you wanting to let go of the other, but you wanted to see Dean. So you didn’t break contact, not even as you moved from the bed to other parts of the bunker. You held hands or let Sam drape an arm around you. Sam wanted you to rest, but you itched to be walking around. This was your true return to home and you wanted to have a look at everything while recognizing it. Plus, you were fine except for the headache, which was gradually subsiding anyway, the effects of the spell broken. You still had to figure out how that happened. 

Emerging from the hallway, you saw Dean standing in the library and you broke contact with Sam to run up and embrace him. Dean’s arms clutched you just as tightly as Sam’s, engulfing you as he rested his chin on the top of your head. You felt him sigh in his hug. 

“It’s good to have you back, kiddo,” he said with tears forming in his eyes. 

You stepped back with a smile. “It's good to be back.” But your smile faded as you looked around the library and realized what a mess it was. “I should kick both of your butts for doing this to the library!” you exclaimed, looking at the wrecked room with disappointment, “I had everything sorted and organized. This is a disaster.”

“Kick our butts all you want,” Sam smirked. He was just glad to have you back, fastidiousness and all. 

“What happened to this place?”

“We were looking for information about you.”

“Oh.” 

Now you remembered that you had hidden your notes and plans cleverly inside the bunker, determined that neither Sam or Dean would find them. You stood in the midst of the mess that was ultimately your fault, a hand on your hip and the other floating from your forehead to the back of your head, pushing your hair back from your face. Now that the subject had been brought up, it was time to explain and fill in some holes, to be honest with Sam about what happened. 

“I guess it’s time to talk about everything,” you said. 

Sam walked over and snaked his hands around your waist, kissing you on the head and murmuring, “Whenever you’re ready.”

You didn’t deserve his patience. You owed him an explanation and whether you wanted to admit to everything in person or not, you needed to. This wasn’t about your level of comfort at the moment, but making amends. Even if Sam or Dean never divulged to you how hurt they were, you owed them both at least an explanation. So, you led Sam by his hand to one of tables, Dean following closely. It was time to begin your story.

It started a little over a year ago, you guessed, around the anniversary of your sister’s death. The three of you happened to be working a case that required you to visit a local shop that sold certain items in the back that hunters would need. There were books for sale as well, some more rare than others. Their small collection was impressive and you couldn’t help but spend some time thumbing over the book spines, reading titles to see if anything caught your eye. It just so happened that the shop had a Latin text. _Demons and Angels_ had been the title. You bought it, looking for nothing more than to hone in your latin skills and maybe learn something new, but you got much more than you bargained for. The timing had been just right, with the memory of your sister and your desire for justice in the forefront of your mind combining with the latin text that told you it was possible to shut the gates of hell forever. You thought that maybe, just maybe you could swing it, and if you did, you might feel at peace for what you did to your sister. 

That’s when the lying began. The trials were still theoretical. There was no use in bothering Sam or Dean about the research. You did it on your own, quietly in the night, using the Men of Letters library or talking to more shop owners when you were out of town. Occasionally you made a trip or two by yourself to a shop or personal library that held promise. Sam and Dean suspected nothing because you were too clever for your own good. You research continued on in secret until you had come to the conclusion that there was enough lore to verify that closing the gates of hell was indeed possible. 

Then you began researching and planning ways to complete the trials. The first task was the hellhound’s blood, which was simple enough in theory. However, locating a hellhound was not as simple as killing it. With some diligence, though, you were able to find a case where two people in the same family had died by being ripped to shreds in the span of a month. You traveled to their estate, guessing that maybe this family had a history of making deals, and you got lucky. That was the first time you killed a creature on your own. Afterwards, you continued to rationalize lying to Sam and Dean, deciding it was best for them not to worry about you. They didn’t need to. You were capable and intelligent and killing the hellhound on your own bolstered your self-confidence and fueled it for the next trial. Sending an innocent soul to heaven. 

The planning and process of completing this task was much trickier and required more research. You had to know how to get into hell, locate an innocent soul, and then send it off to heaven. A reaper by the name of Zara had aided you with this task. How she caught wind of your activities, you weren’t sure, but she popped up unexpectedly while you were sitting in a motel room researching. She claimed knowledge of which souls in hell were innocent and a way to enter hell, no charge to you. You took your chances with Zara, determined to see all three trials through. 

Sam and Dean had been listening intently until then, at which point they interrupted to tell you they met this same reaper and that she had special connections with Crowley. You put two and two together with their information. She knew about the innocent souls because she was the one who reaped them. She had come to you for the same reason she came to Sam and Dean with supposed help and information. Her plan all along was to lead all of you into the clutches of Crowley, hopefully so that the threat you all imposed would be eliminated. Zara had no doubt been the reason Crowley caught up to you during the next trial.

You didn’t move on to the next one immediately, though. After a trip through hell, you took a break from the trials. Watching Sam and Dean tackle spirits and monsters alike, and allowing them to train you some, had given you a taste of the action, but slicing and dicing creatures yourself, walking into hell alone and facing those terrors was a culture shock. You found yourself needing some time to rest after the second trial, feeling rundown and emotionally spent. During your repose, you wanted tell Sam and Dean about your excursions, but no matter how hard you tried, how many times you planned out your confession and stood outside a doorway, the words leaning over the tip of your tongue ready to spill out, you never could do it. 

You had gotten this far on your own. You could complete the last task. You had all the knowledge you needed to do so and the training to get it done. Sam and Dean had already done their fair share of world-saving, they didn’t need to be burdened with this. And the longer you kept it hidden, the deeper the guilt settled into you, convincing you that this was your task alone. You thought of it as a way to bring justice for your sister’s death and to atone for allowing her to die. You also thought about how Sam would be upset with you if he found out at this point, which further prevented you from being honest. It was better just to get it over with, come home safe and sound, and then tell them the good news, which would hopefully curb any other negative reactions they were bound to have. 

However, you were unaware that Zara had told Crowley about your plans. He had been watching you ever since you slipped into hell, waiting for you to come out from hiding and attempt to complete the last task. All it took was for you to capture a single demon and hole up in an abandoned house with your supplies. Crowley caught wind of it and graced your presence, flanked by a few other demons. You hadn’t even started the ritual yet, only having time to tie down the demon and set up your supplies before being cornered and outnumbered by many more. It was in that moment that you regretted keeping so many secrets. You thought Crowley was going to kill you right then and that Sam would never know your fate. He would spend years searching for you, never knowing what happened unless Crowley found it in himself to be decent enough to let Sam know you had died at his hands.

But Crowley didn’t kill you. Instead, he opted to keep you as leverage to both prevent the Winchesters from continuing your work, should they find out what you had been up to (you had told Crowley they knew nothing), and to avoid invoking their wrath by killing you. Even he was smart enough to know that vengeful Winchesters were a force to be reckoned with. So, he kept you locked up in a dungeon for a couple weeks until he found a witch that could perform the spell he had in mind. He spilled all of the terrifying details about his ideas to you, leaving you to know your fate while shackled inside a cold, dark cell. 

You remembered feeling the most helpless and pained you had ever felt, shackled to the stone wall while watching the witch, Mandy, get ready to cast her spell. She prepared everything in front of you, making you watch while Crowley stood as an observer, making sure you wouldn’t try to escape. Knowing your fate, you spent what you thought were your last moments as yourself running through each of your happiest memories with Sam: your first meeting, your first kiss, your first “I love you.” You allowed your mind to spend ample time feeling out each detail of your important memories: the scent of Sam’s sheets in the morning, the softness of his lips, the visible improvement in his countenance after you patched him up. And as Mandy started her incantation while Crowley sneered in sickening pleasure, you closed your eyes and imagined that Sam was standing before you, peering into your eyes with his hazel ones so that you could focus on all the details of his irises, appreciating their beauty for what may have been the last time.

When you awoke the next day, you were a civilian adult with a steady job and a decent home, living with your work-friend, Mandy. You disliked your career, but lived comfortably and couldn’t complain too much. You thought you had been friends with Mandy for a couple years, had recently decided to move out to Arizona to get away from a suffocating family, and that you had went to college for accounting. Whenever you finally got your hands on Crowley, you’d personally deliver some swift punches to his face for placing you in that field. You lived like that for three months, with dreams and headaches popping up, not know what any of it meant. Looking back, you realized how cold and unsympathetic Mandy had been. Most of the time, she made you feel silly and delusional for worrying about your mental state. You wondered why you had never seen through her facade. 

But all of that was over now. You were sitting in the bunker library again, surrounded by your family and holding the hands of the man you loved once again. When you ended your story, finishing with the last moments before Sam came rushing into your cell, you were too ashamed to look either of them in the eyes, opting to stare at the glossy table instead, watching the reflections of the lights hanging overhead, waiting for someone to say something. Dean was the first to speak.

“I have to say, Y/N, that was really stupid of you. Unbelievably reckless, but we’re glad you’re home. But it sounds like you kicked some serious ass out there.”

You let yourself smile, glancing up at Dean. “I know and I’m really sorry. I just thought that you guys had done enough already and that I could finish it on my own. I understand if you’re angry with me and need some time-”

“Woah,” Sam interrupted, squeezing your hands, “We’re not angry with you. Extremely shocked, yes, but we’re more relieved that you’re ok. That’s all I wanted.” He wouldn’t let go of your hands, wouldn’t stop looking at you. 

“We’re definitely pissed at Crowley, though. We’re going after him next chance we get,” Dean said. 

“I guess I should've known you guys wouldn’t be angry. I’m just,” you sighed, “really sorry. I know I made you guys worried sick.”

You looked to Sam, gauging his reaction, not wanting to see the hurt that would be evident in his eyes, but when you met his gaze, you mostly saw relief and concern for you, not himself, and you sat there, resting in that gaze. You’d missed seeing his eyes more than you realized.

Dean cleared his throat. “Well, uh, I’m going to start cleaning up this mess, somewhere else,” he said, “Let you two catch up or whatever.”

You gave him a small grin and watched him exit to another part of the bunker, anticipating what Sam was going to say next as the reality of being alone together settled over both of you.

“Y/N, how are you doing?” 

Of course he thought only to ask that first. While you were concerned about the extent of their anger, he was only hoping that you were ok. 

“I, uh, I have a headache still, probably an effect of that spell, and I’m still piecing together some of the memories, but I’m good, Sam. Really good.”

His thumb continued to move back and forth across your palm, re-memorizing the lines and feel of your skin. You could feel Sam’s desperate need to touch the reality of your presence even through his thumb. You closed your hand around his fingers, a small reassuring gesture that needed and asked for so much more.

“Are we good?” he asked.

His question caught you off guard. You weren’t quite sure what he meant by it, but it didn’t seem like he was ok, as his eyes were now worried and set with a familiar heartbreak that you never wanted to see. It made you uncomfortable, like something was broken that you didn’t know about.

“I’m not sure if I understand what you mean.”

Sam shifted and sighed in his seat as he prepared to say something that was apparently a big deal to him. You wondered if there was something you’d missed or a memory that hadn’t returned yet. 

“When you left, at first I thought that something terrible had happened to you once I called your phone and you didn’t answer. I called so many times, your car was gone, there was no note. I wanted to believe that it was monster that had done something to you, but you drove away in your car. Monsters were ruled out. Dean and I could figure that much and so I started to think that maybe you had left me. I thought maybe this was all too much for you, hunting the creatures. And then we found out about the...the trials and I just, I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me? Is there a reason you feel you couldn't trust me with that? Did I do something to make you feel that way?”

You shook your head, holding back tears as you heard what Sam had been thinking. “God, Sam no. That’s not it at all. I trust you completely, with everything I have. I was just so caught up in believing that I had it handled, that it was my job, that I convinced myself I didn’t need to tell you. And I am so, so sorry, baby,” you choked out, “I never, ever should have done that to you without saying anything. We are more than, ok, Sam, always. I will always love you.”

Sam nodded and his hand floated up to your face, a thumb now stroking your cheek, wiping away some of the tears. He looked at you with a sudden yearning to have you back in every way he had you before, reassured that you still loved him. He needed you close to him and so he leaned in to touch his lips to yours and you felt his tears wetting your cheek as they ran down his face. You ghosted his arms with your fingertips and he laid his hand against the side of your face, pulling you into his embrace with the other on your waist. You welcomed the closeness. 

A few seconds later, he whispered between kisses, “Let’s put you to bed.”

You grasped his shirt tighter and smiled against his mouth, breathing your agreement, and then you stood up together, walking back to your room as he led you by your hand, both of you finally at peace for the first time in months.


	10. The Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y/N and the Winchesters try to locate Crowley, discuss the Trials, and Y/N makes a choice.

The next morning you awoke in Sam’s arms, a cocoon of warmth surrounding both of you as you faced him, watching him breathing peacefully, unaware that you had awoken. The sheets were the softest they had ever been and Sam’s arms were heavy on you in the best way. You wondered why you ever left this.

When he did finally stir, his eyes fluttered open and then he looked at you as if he had almost forgotten you were real. Then he pulled you closer and let you nuzzle your head into the space just below his jaw, one of your favorite places to be.

The two of you would have remained that way for the entire morning if Dean hadn’t come knocking on the door.

“Rise and shine!” he shouted after three bangs on the door, “It’s after eleven, lovebirds. Time to get moving.”

Sam sighed and you rolled your eyes. “What does it matter if we sleep in all day?” you said.

“Well, we do have everything with Crowley to take care of,” Sam mentioned.

“Right.” Your face fell, feeling ashamed because that situation was your fault, but then you felt Sam’s gentle fingers lifting your chin so that you would look at him.

“It’s ok. We’ll figure this out.” He placed a quick kiss on your lips and then shuffled out of bed.

You didn’t think he realized what was really bothering you. You weren’t scared or worried about Crowley. He was just another demon that you all had repeatedly dealt with over the years. What you were concerned about was putting Sam and Dean through the mess you made. This was all your fault and The Trials were your responsibility. It wasn’t right to make them fix your mistakes and finish your job, but they’d want to help regardless and you couldn’t make them back down even if you tried.

You and Sam dressed and then walked to the kitchen together, meeting a cold breakfast that was waiting for you: waffles that had already been toasted and bacon that had been sitting out on the table. At least the coffee was still hot. When you both finished eating, you found Dean in the library sitting at his computer, some of the books that had been on the floor now placed on the table with him.

“So, I haven’t found any signs of Crowley activity,” Dean said when he saw the two of you enter together, “But that doesn’t mean he’s quiet. He’s probably got people watching for us, but what else is new?”

Dean continued to ramble on about taking revenge on Crowley for what he did to you, looking more at his computer than at you or Sam, unaware of the uneasy look growing on your face.

You bit your lip, trying to distract yourself from Dean’s speech, and then when you couldn’t take it anymore, you interrupted him. “Can we just, clean up this room first? I can’t think with all of this mess!”

You walked around the small piles of books in the library without waiting for an answer, picking a couple up and hastily placing them back where they went. The Winchesters watched you, neither of them knowing how to respond to your sudden, odd behavior. You rushed through a pile of books while they sat giving each other looks until Sam finally decided to speak up.

“Y/N, is something bothering you?” he asked.

“Hmm?” you hummed, barely hearing him.

“Is something bothering you?” he repeated.

You finished putting a book up and moved on to more, trying to appear as if you hadn’t just had an outburst. “I just need a clear space to think. You know how I am.”

“Look, if you don’t want to talk about Crowley, I understand,” Dean said, “He did some really crappy things to you.”

“That’s not it,” you snapped.

“Then what is it?” Sam asked.

You sighed, shoving the books in your hands wherever, even if it’s where they didn’t belong, and you threw your hands up in the air. “I feel guilty, ok? You guys shouldn’t be putting yourselves in danger because of me and you shouldn’t have to do anything with these Trials. That’s on me, not you.”

“We’re all family here,” Sam said, “I told you we would do anything to help you, that I would do anything. Crowley hurt you, Y/N, I can’t let him get away with that.”

“And no one said we were doing anything with the trials,” Dean said, “First job is Crowley, then we’ll decide on whether or not we finish those.”

You stared at Dean, confused and hurt. You hadn’t meant that you all should just drop the last trial, only that you felt bad for putting it on them as well. “What do you mean? Those Trials can close the gates of hell forever. We can’t just drop that!”

Sam walked over to you, worried, stretching an arm out. “We have to make sure Crowley is taken care of. Then we’ll talk about the Trials, Ok?”

You felt unexpected tears stinging your eyes, which you promptly wiped away. You backed away from Sam’s hand, instantly regretting the look of pain that crossed his face. Dean sat in the chair, just as alarmed as Sam and confused as to what was happening.

“I just, I need to take a walk. Don’t worry, I’m not going outside,” you said as you noticed a flash of worry across their faces. Without waiting for a reply, you briskly walked out of the library and headed for nowhere in particular.

You ended up wandering the halls, walking past the bedrooms and the shooting range and ending up in the dungeon. They probably wouldn’t think to look for you there, so you slipped inside, pulling back the faux shelves and then shutting them once you were inside. It was dead silent, the perfect place for you to think. You sat yourself in the lonely chair, thinking it was ironic that you were placed there at the moment. This dungeon didn’t bother you, though, because it was your own and you knew you could leave at any time.

You let out a long sigh and relaxed into the chair, the silence comforting you and the solitude a relief. Even though you had just returned, you needed some space to think and you couldn’t do that with everyone watching you.

You wanted to continue the Trials. With Sam and Dean’s help, there was no doubt you could get it done, but they didn’t want to help, or at least they weren’t sure if they wanted to. They said they did, but they were too concerned about you to consider it rationally. The Trials were important, more important than anything else you’d done together, and they couldn’t be forgotten.

You perked up a bit, thought for a second, and then sprung up from the chair, exiting the dungeon to walk through the halls and find the room you’d found a few months ago. While doing your initial research, you’d come across some documents in the bunker’s records that indicated that the Men of Letters had attempted to cure a demon before, so you went searching for their supplies. You found the room that time and you quickly found it again, it being in the same, deep part of the bunker as the dungeon.

The room was surprisingly larger than expected, looking more like a renovated second dungeon than an actual office or meeting room. As you expected, there were still some syringes left. They were sitting right on the table beside the recording machine that you had used to learn the ritual. You knew the ritual by heart now, having gone through mock sessions before. Now that your memory was returned, you could recall the practice easily and you knew exactly what you’d ask for forgiveness for. The ritual called for purified blood and in order to be purified, you had to atone for your greatest sin. It could be tricky for some people, figuring out exactly what that was, but you’d always known your greatest mistake.

As you looked on at the contents on the table, you realized that there was nothing stopping you from completing the last trial. You had all the supplies, the incantations memorized, and a plan, but what you didn’t have was the support of Sam and Dean. Crowley was also an issue, the same as he had been last time, but you were aware of him now.

You left the room, leaving the tools on the table where you found them, deciding to come back for them later after you’d talked to Sam and Dean some more. Waiting for them to capture Crowley may prove more useful than trying to convince them now. You’d just have to be patient.

When you returned to the library, Sam and Dean were whispering to one another.

“Hey guys,” you said, slipping into the chair beside Sam.

They both perked up and Sam turned to look at you.

“I’m sorry,” you continued, “I didn’t mean to be so harsh, it’s just that these trials are really important to me and I want to have your support. It honestly feels like just yesterday that I was so close to finishing them. This whole memory thing is warping my sense of time.”

Sam grabbed one of your hands that was lying on the table and he held it as he tried to reassure you. “I’m sorry, too. We don’t mean to sound unsupportive. But we’ve all got a lot going on right now and we can’t spread ourselves too thin. We need to focus on Crowley.”

“I understand,” you said.

You and Sam exchanged knowing smiles and then you turned to Dean. Sam wouldn’t let go of your hand, though.

“Ok, guess it’s my turn to talk,” Dean said, “I think I’ve figured out a way to get Crowley. We should summon him.”

“Summon him? Won’t he kind of be expecting that?” Sam asked.

“There’s ways to make summoning spells stronger,” you said.

“Bingo,” Dean said. “I should’ve just asked you first. Would’ve saved me some time.”

“So, what all do we need?” Sam asked.

“Demon blood, some random herbs we have here in the bunker, stuff I can’t pronounce. You take a look at it.” Dean shoved a piece of paper with a list written on it across the table to you. You let go of Sam’s hand to read over the list, recognizing everything on it.

“This looks good. Except, I think we should add in some knotweed and woodruff for good measure,” you said, looking over the list.

Sam and Dean eyed each other and shrugged. “Whatever you think,” Dean said, “You’re the expert.”

“I can go gather the ingredients now and make sure we have everything,” you said.

“Wait, we don’t have to start this now,” Sam said, “You’ve only been back a couple of days.”

“You said yourself that Crowley did horrible things to me. I want him out of the way. I’m good, we’re all good. Why sit around when we have a plan?”

“She has a point,” Dean said.

“We don’t have any demon blood, though,” Sam said.

“So, one of us summons a crossroads demon, we gank it with the knife, and there. We have blood. Then we hightail it back here and summon Crowley in the dungeon,” you explained. “Simple.”

Dean seemed convinced enough to go on with the plan, but you could tell Sam was having his doubts. You had to admit, you were rushing the plan some, eager to get done with Crowley and talk about the Trials, but it was all with good reason. If you succeeded with capturing Crowley, it would be much easier to complete the last trial.

“Are you sure you’re good?” Sam asked you.

“Definitely,” you smiled, “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can get back to normal.”

Sam seemed to understand that, and so you all got up from the table, the Winchesters gathering holy water and other supplies, you gathering items for the summoning spell. While everyone was busy packing, you also grabbed a bag and went back to the room by the dungeon, stuffing the syringes and jars into the duffle and leaving it on the table for later.

Emerging from the recesses of the bunker some time later, you carefully placed the ingredients for the summoning spell onto a cleared-off table in the library. You checked each item against Dean’s list, double checking that everything was accounted for and prepared as much as it could be. Then you carted it back to the dungeon, setting it up just so on a small table inside the dimly lit space. Once you had the demon blood, you would only have the simplest of steps left to complete to summon Crowley. Everything should work smoothly.

Once everyone was ready, Dean drove to the nearest crossroads location. You all hoped it was still active. You never knew when a demon had moved on to another one to avoid being caught, which they did fairly often. Although sometimes they were rather fond of a particular area, so they revisited it frequently. After some discussion on the way there, it was agreed that you were to begin the deal while Sam and Dean waited in the shadows. As long as you continued talking, the demon should be distracted enough for one of them to come up from behind and run the knife into its back. So once there, you dug a small hole with your hands, placing the box in with the necessary items, including a small picture of you with your family. It took almost no time at all for a demon to show.

The man standing before you was quite overdressed for the occasion, donning a tailored suit in the middle of rural Kansas, but you had to admit, he had class.

“Well hello, sweetheart,” he said, his voice smooth like honey. If you hadn’t been a seasoned hunter, you’d have fallen for this man’s tricks hard and fast. “What can I do for you tonight?”

Stepping closer, you acted sheepish and scared. There may be a chance this guy didn’t know who you were and you wanted to play on that. “I-I want my family back,” you muttered.

“That’s quite the request, sweetheart,” he cooed. His attention was completely on you, but it wasn’t time yet. You had to draw him in some more before he would be distracted enough. “I don’t usually trade one soul for three.”

Damn it. He knew exactly who you were. “Can you make one exception? Please?”

He laughed softly, barely a threat in his tone. “No can do, sweetheart. It’s one for one on souls.”

“Then just my sister?” you asked quickly.

“Can I ask why you’re making this deal? Don’t you know it’s not wise to be out right now, especially when you’re associated with the Winchesters and the King of Hell is looking for all three of you?”

“I-I’ve realised what I really want. I don’t care about that stuff anymore. It’s caused me more trouble than what it’s worth. What really matters is my sister. Now, can you please, please bring her back? I don’t care how many years you give me. She deserves to live, not me!”

The demon smiled sickly sweet, loving the sound of those words off your lips. Crossroads Demons always loved a desperate customer. They could be more creative with their contracts and didn’t have to give as much.

“You’ve given Crowley a lot of trouble lately, almost got his entire operation shut down. I don’t know if I should even be making this deal. Although, he would love to hear that your soul was bound to hell. I think he’d be absolutely delighted. So, look, I can give you six months, tops. With the price on your head, you’re lucky I’m giving you anything. Crowley would honestly love to have your body and soul handed to him right now, but I’m going to be decent. You should have some time with your sister after all these years. But if you even so much as reach for one of the blood-filled syringes, the deal’s over. I take you and your sister dies again. Understood?”

You gulped, struggling to nod because the deal felt all too real. If you were on your own, you might have actually finished this deal. The temptation was so strong, your guilt motivating your every move. The way you were thinking scared you, but you nodded anyway, remembering the plan.

“Good,” the demon sneered, watching your bobbing, quiet head. “Now let’s seal that deal.”

The demon began stepping toward you and your eyes widened with how close he was, but just as he was about to lean in for the kiss, you saw the lightening flashes of demon death sparking throughout his face.

“That was a close one,” Dean said.

He and Sam lowered the body to the ground. “Yeah, a little too close,” Sam said.

He looked at you, searching for a sign that you were ok. You smiled faintly and nodded, a little shaken up, but fine all the same. Dean pulled a small jar out of a pocket and drained some blood from the demon’s wrist. Then he screwed the lid on and handed the jar to you. You had done it.

While Sam and Dean disposed of the body, you dug your box back out and retrieved the picture, then threw the box along with the other contents into the forest on the side of the road. Now, there was only the ride home and the spell to complete. Everything was running better than you could’ve hoped.

The drive home was quick. Crowley was bound to hear of a demon’s disappearance before too long, so you had limited time to summon him without his being suspicious. Putting the spell together was quick and efficient as well. Sam and Dean stood by as they watched you mix the ingredients artfully. They were armed and ready to throw Crowley into the chair if he popped in on the wrong spot, but you were sure you had positioned everything correctly.

There was a brief moment of silence and hesitation before you dropped in the last ingredient and said the last bit of the incantation, looking to Sam and Dean to signal that they should be ready. They read the signal and then you finished, a puff of black smoke arising from the bowl and latin words rolling off your tongue smoothly.

“What in the bloody hell is this?” Crowley’s shouting echoed off the walls of the dungeon. The spell had worked. Crowley was sitting in the dungeon chair, underneath the devil’s trap and completely under your control.

You walked around to stand by Sam while Dean approached Crowley to lock up the cuffs on his wrists and ankles.

“This,” Dean said, “is payback. You messed with her, we mess with you.” Dean pointed from you and back to Crowley.

Crowley huffed and rolled his eyes. “I seem to recall that she messed with me first, with her clever little scheme to lock me up in hell forever. I’m sure you boys know all about that by now.”

“We do. And we know a lot more, too,” Sam said, staring him down. “Y/N told us about what you did to her.”

“Aw, look at the sad moose. Too bad I don’t care! She came on my turf, stole one of my souls, and I’m supposed to ignore that? I don’t think so. She attacked the King of Hell. She has to deal with the consequences.”

“The only one getting dealt consequences here is you,” Dean said. “We’re going to have some fun before we kill you.”

“The Winchesters? Torturing for the sake of torture? I must say I’m excited by this development, a bit concerned, yes, but excited. I didn’t realize you weren’t above this.”

“You hurt Y/N. We don’t need another reason,” Sam said.

“Well, get on with it. Let’s see how much you can get done before I find a way to escape.”

“Nah, you’re going to sit here a minute, enjoy your inability to do anything. We’ll be back at some point,” Dean said, and then walked out of the dungeon, signalling for you and Sam to come with. Sam shut the shelves behind him and you three stood in a circle, some space away from the doors.

“Ok, so what’s the plan?” Dean asked.

Honestly, none of you had thought this far. It would seem simplest to just kill Crowley right then and there, but then you had an idea.

“Let’s keep him locked up. While he’s in there, he can’t bother us outside. We can complete the last trial. He can’t do anything about it and he’ll get sucked back into hell forever. It’s the perfect time. If we wait too long, he’s right, he’ll probably escape.”

“Y/N, I thought we agreed to wait on the Trials,” Sam said.

“Yeah, just slow down there, roadrunner. One thing at a time,” Dean added.

You looked back and forth between them, in awe that they were being this reluctant. You just waited, hoping they would see the look on your face and realize how silly they were acting.

“Seriously?” you asked, with no change in response from them. “What exactly is the problem? We have Crowley.”

“Y/N, I don’t want to see you get hurt again. We don’t know what’s going to happen if we try to start the last trial. We don’t even know much about the trials themselves. Please just wait,” Sam said.

“I did the research, Sam, you can trust that. I thought you wanted to help me. This is important to me. You said you understood that.”

“I do, I just think you should reconsider that for now, after everything that’s happened. Some hunts have to wait.”

You held back tears as you stood before them. So much anger was building up inside of you that it was threatening to burst forth in a mess of hot tears and shaking muscles, so you walked out before any of that happened. You left the dungeon and headed for the next best space you could think of: your room. You slammed the door of the bedroom once you were inside and that’s when you let your guard down.

You were so upset with Sam and Dean right now, especially Sam. He was supposed to understand how important this was to you. Instead, he was talking like he wanted to forget the Trials completely and act like they didn’t even exist, but you couldn’t do that.

You needed to escape for awhile to process this, though, so you walked over to your bedside table and pulled open the drawer, shuffling through the contents and finding your ipod and headphones right where you left them. Then you kicked off your shoes, took off your pants, and climbed into bed, pulling the covers up and plugging the headphones in.

It had been so long since you were able to listen to your music. It was comforting and peaceful, a collection of nostalgia and emotion right at your fingertips. As it usually did, the songs began to take you to someplace else and you calmed down some. Although you were still deeply bothered by Sam and Dean’s actions, you had stopped crying and shaking. Instead, something else rose up inside of you. You began to realize that the Trials had always been your task and they would continue to be so. You couldn’t expect Sam or Dean to feel the same way about them as you did. What you could do, though, is take advantage of this opportunity. Crowley was locked up. Your job was made a lot easier.

You could sneak out. You’d done it once before. Only this time, you’d do things differently. You’d leave Sam a note. He deserved to know what you’d be doing and if anything happened, he’d be able to find you much sooner.

Sometime after you’d slipped into bed, you saw a crack of light beam through the doorway and then quickly disappear. Moments later Sam was getting into bed next to you, the mattress dipping under his frame. He must’ve thought you were asleep because he scooted in close and wrapped an arm over you, careful not to move you or make any sudden movements.

You remained still for a couple hours, making sure he was asleep and then getting up to see what Dean was doing. After seeing his form in his bed through his left-open door, you knew the coast was clear. You very quietly grabbed clothes and shoes and then went to change in a restroom. Then you tiptoed to where your bag was stashed and you grabbed it, double checking the contents. You also threw in ingredients for a general summing spell, opting not to mess with another crossroads deal to get you a demon.

Lastly, before you went to the garage, you took a piece of paper and a pen and hastily scribbled a note to Sam: _I’ll be back in a couple of days. I’m sorry to do this again, but it will be ok. This is my last trial to complete. I love you._

After that, there wasn’t anything left to do except sling your bag over your shoulder and trek to the garage, find your keys in the visor, and then drive off, knowing that this may not have been the smartest decision, but it was a necessary one. You hoped Sam could at least understand that.

The next morning, Sam woke up to a cold empty bed, signaling to him that you had been up for some time.

He shuffled into the kitchen, finding it empty. Then he went to the dungeon. Dean was there, keeping an eye on Crowley, but you weren’t with him. Sam asked him if he’d seen you this morning and Dean said no, he’d been up for a couple hours and hadn’t seen you or Sam until just now.

Sam’s heart instantly dropped to his feet. He spun on his heels and ran back out of the dungeon, calling your name, hoping you hadn’t done anything stupid. He ran through the halls, his calls having no answer. Then he ran back into the library, seeing it empty again, and that’s when he noticed it. The small piece of paper on the only bare table in the library. He read it and his heart twisted into knots.

With the paper crumbled in his fist, he stomped back to the dungeon where Dean was waiting expectantly. Sam handed him the note and waited for Dean to read it.

“Son of bitch,” Dean said.

“You think Crowley has anything to do with it?”

“Maybe. Let’s ask.”

Dean opened the shelves for the first time that morning and they saw Crowley sitting as he had been last night, looking utterly bored and very perturbed.

“Good morning boys. Where’s your girlfriend? Thought she’d like to get in on the festivities today,” Crowley said.

“Like you don’t already know,” Sam said.

Crowley waited, looking between the two of them. “I don’t,” he finally said, “What? Has she left you again?”

The looks on their faces gave him all the answer he needed. He began to laugh and in reaction, Dean lunged forward and grabbed a fistful of his shirt.

“This isn’t funny. You’re going to tell us what you did or said or whatever you know. We know you’re behind this.”

“She hasn’t come to talk to me. Honest.” He threw up his hands. “I think we all know what she’s doing, though.” At that Dean released his shirt, knowing exactly what Crowley meant. “And I hope she doesn’t succeed, for both our sakes’,” Crowley jeered.

“What do you mean?” Sam asked, knowing that Crowley was talking about the Trials.

“Oh, you don’t know? This last trial is far more dangerous than the others. It requires a much larger sacrifice, the ultimate sacrifice, if you wish.”

Dean looked to Sam, but Sam was focused on Crowley, his jaws clenched. He didn’t know what to say. He was scared. He didn’t know where you were or what was going to happen to you and then, when Crowley finally filled the silence by completing his sentence, his words made Sam’s blood run so cold, there could have been icicles piercing his heart from the inside.

“Y/N will die if she completes the third trial.”


	11. The Runaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are completing the trials while Sam and Dean try to get to you in time.

The air inside the forgotten church was heavy, saturated with the scent of mildew and swaths of dust dancing in the air. As you stood in the front of the empty chapel, you could see the trails on the floor where you had drug the massive chair into the center of the room, mounds of dust on either side like miniature ditches running across the floor. The dirt had accumulated that much inside this once sacred building. The land remained consecrated, though, which is why you chose this location. It’s what the ritual called for. 

Everything was perfect, even more so than your last attempt at this trial. You knew Crowley wasn’t on your tail and you possessed enough confidence to push you through the eight hours it required. Your confidence may have seemed naive given the circumstances. You were alone, save the seething demon you had trapped, and you weren’t completely aware of all the ramifications of what you were about to accomplish, but you were prepared and assured in your rationale. The whole world would be saved by closing up Hell, and because of that, you might finally be able to forgive yourself for your sister’s death.

Her image was placed deliberately in the forefront of your mind as you readied for your task, faded memories repeating themselves like movies on scratched film. You placed the empty vials in a row across the table, the metal tapping ever so slightly against the soft wood, as you remembered your time running in the park. You surveyed the table, making sure all the vials were in place as you recalled teaching her a song on the piano. The incantations were sitting out, you even had snacks and water to help combat the blood loss. There was nothing else to prepare.

You stepped down from the platform and walked around to check the devil’s trap and the demon’s bindings. She was eerily quiet. You expected snarky remarks or taunting, but were thankful for the silence nonetheless. You would need it to begin the ritual. Her eyes followed you around as you checked everything, but she said nothing. It was unsettling, but you carried on. Demons were supposed to be unsettling, so you couldn't let it shake you. 

You looked around the vacant space for a good spot to kneel down. There wasn’t a confessional booth. Termites had long since rotted away any wooden structures inside and scavengers gutted the leftovers. You imagined what this place once looked like, how it may have been quaint, but sturdy, a refuge of solace to its attendees. There would’ve been rows of oak pews, lined perhaps with blood-red cushioning or left bare for uncomfortable seating that reminded the congregation more of penance than peace. The floors would’ve shined and sunlight would’ve filtered through the tall stained glass windows, filling the vaulted ceilings and casting a rainbow of colors across whatever relics and symbols were arranged around the podium. Now, the windows were cracked and broken, and whatever was left of them covered in a thick layer of grime. The wooden cross still hung front and center, steadfast like the man it represented, the man you were about to confess to. 

That was another part of this final trial. Along with the sacred ground and the demon purification, there had to be a cleansing of the blood that was used. This cleansing was done by confession of sins, not the little stuff that you forgot the next day--the rudeness to a store clerk or the white lie you told to your friends. The sins you needed to confess here on the filthy ground of this church were sins buried deep within a person, black spots that had grown tendrils inside you and tinged all areas of your life, sins that shaped who you had become. You’d never had practice with confession of any kind, so the whole idea of crouching down and whispering to the void seemed awkward and unfulfilling, but it couldn't be any more difficult than killing a hellhound. You settled on a far off corner decorated with a couple empty cardboard boxes left by the scavengers. They would provide what little privacy you could afford, creating a flimsy wall that was more an ideal than a reality. There was no doubt the demon could still see your feet poking out from behind a box once you kneeled or still hear the faint echo of your soft voice in the emptiness, but embarrassment was something you could not afford. 

Deciding on this spot, you walked over, dust becoming unsettled and re-settling over the tops of your shoes, quietness slowly turning into loneliness as you focused on what you were going to say. You slowly lowered yourself to your knees in the corner, hearing every movement of your joints, the swipe of your sleeves against your shirt, your jeans shuffling across the grimy wood, before you got into a comfortable position. Then you folded your hands and bowed your head, closing your eyes and falling into sacred darkness, letting the thoughts of your prayers swim around like fish in the inky black of your guilty mind. Nothing you read was too specific with the confession instructions, but this is how you’d seen most people do it on television. 

The words started off slow, and you whispered as you began, unsure of how exactly to explain your blame and release every thought and emotion that grew out of your childhood tragedy. The memory seemed so monumental, so defining, but this moment was small and contrived, a cheap replica of the real deal. You had no audience, no priest to absolve you, no rosary to hold or communion to take. There was only you, God, and the terrible silence in between. 

“Dear God, I, uh, don’t know if this is how it’s suppose to be done, but I’m here to confess my greatest sin. I have completed the other trials and now-”

“You’re gonna have to talk louder than that, sweety!” The demon’s voice grated against your ears, profaning this religious moment, startling you. “God likes a show, you know, the whole on-your-knees, groveling and weeping thing. Maybe he’ll get this over with faster if you really lay it on thick!”

You chose to ignore the comments of the demon. She couldn’t be trusted to give you any sound advice and she’d only bog your mind up with harboring worries. So, you continued, just a bit louder than before, not for the demon, but for confidence. 

“I’ve completed the other two trials and have now come to the third. I endeavored on this not knowing for sure what it would bring me, but hoping for a few things, namely, forgiveness. There’s so many things I’ve done wrong in my life. I’ve lied, I’ve said hurtful things I didn't mean, I’ve stolen and I’ve hurt people. Lying to and hurting Sam was one of the lowest things I’ve done, but, that was not my greatest sin. I’ve always known what my biggest sin was. My sister. When I should’ve stayed, I ran. When I should’ve helped, I hid. I could’ve made a difference that night, I could’ve saved her. But I didn’t. I was too scared and selfish. I ran away and hid in that closet while hearing the screams of my family, their dying screams, and because of that, I’m alive. Most days I don’t feel like I deserve life and I sure as hell don’t deserve Sam. I’m on borrowed time, I understand that, but I want to make amends. I want to kill the threat that killed my sister. Maybe then I will feel worthy enough live without guilt, but even if I don’t, I will have saved a lot of people. I do this in my sister’s memory. I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry. I should've been there for you and I wasn’t. I hope that someday, when we meet each other in the afterlife, you can forgive me. So until that day, just know that I regret what I did that night more than I regret anything else in my life and I ask you, and God, as I bow before him now, for forgiveness.”

There was nothing more left for you to say. The prayer felt complete, but there was a small amount of emptiness in your heart as you became aware of the silence again. You looked up and unfolded your hands, wiping the tears that had begun trailing down your cheeks mid-prayer. It had been so long since you talked that deeply about everything, even with Sam, yet you still felt no closure. That’s what the vials of blood were for, though, to thoroughly scourge you of this sin. 

Turning your attention to them, you walked back up the platform and grabbed the first vial. The needle was sharp and menacing. Cold to the touch, you jumped as it touched the skin in the crook of your elbow and you winced as it slid in, a tubular intrusion sucking out the thick red liquid. That was the part you hated most, the sucking motion, but it was over with quickly. You made efficient work of it. Walking towards the demon, vial in hand and poised for injection, you watched her sitting. That’s all she did. She didn’t fuss or pull at her chains or even insult you. The whole process was eerily absent of any interaction or sound, save the breath from your own lungs and the tapping of your feet across the floor. Silence was usually saved for sacred, important moments, but you felt as if this silence were ruining the whole ordeal. It wasn’t supposed to be this easy. 

You approached the chair, stopped and waited for an attempted attack, and when there was none, you gently placed your free hand on the demon’s head, tilting it to the side while you raised the vial. Your hand came down and the needle slid in her neck just as easily as it had slid into your veins. You pushed the warm liquid in and then pulled it out quickly, watching for any bleeding that may happen. There was none. And the demon still said nothing. You waited. For a reaction, for a sign, for anything. Even steaming skin or cries of pain, but there was nothing. You showed no signs of disappointment, though, as you returned the vial to its place. 

You waited some more. Twenty minutes went by with no sound. Not until you bothered to check on the demon once more, turning around and staring at her deeply, checking for any changes, small or large. You’d be satisfied with even minuscule shifts, a flicker of light in her eyes, a sheen of sweat that revealed human nervousness, a muscle twitch that signified a burn or ache, but you couldn’t see them until she began speaking.

“You’ve got some messed up shit in your life, don’t ya?” the demon suddenly sneered, her head tilting to the left ever so slightly, hanging somewhat limp. You’d only just noticed once she talked. You thought the stance was from boredom, but now you could see it was involuntary as she did not shift once she began talking. The first vial had done something, you could tell that much now. She was beginning to become unhinged; there was pain behind her eyes as she shouted at you. You quirked your brows at her comment. “I heard your little prayer over there. That’s some real sad, sorry shit.”

Her words should not bother you. They were only insults driven from a place of evil and pain. If you were going to get through all the vials, you had to remain calm. Buckling under one verbal attack would do no one any good. So you turned away from the demon once again and put your palms on the table, leaning onto it to steady yourself. Maybe if you ignored her, she’d stop. 

“You couldn’t save your sister so now you’re in this dump, emptying out your blood into a demon. That’s hilarious,” she laughed, “It ain’t gonna help you, though. You’re still the reason your sister is dead.”

Something inside you snapped as her words hit a tender target. You knew that everything she said was true, but she had no right to be throwing it in your face. That was your confession alone. You spun around, words flying out of your mouth with abandon. “And you’re still trapped in that chair, so I don’t know what you’re so cocky about.”

The demon’s smile widened with glee at something unknown to you, the picture of her teeth sinister and unsettling. “I bet the Winchesters don’t even know you’re here. Poor Sammy lost his girlfriend all over again. How tragic.”

“Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Seems like you got a history of running. You ran from your sister, you’ve run from Sam twice now, you’ll probably run the next time one of them gets hurt, too. You’re just a pathetic, cowardly run-away and that’s all you’ll ever be.”

“I said shut up!” you screamed at the demon, lunging towards her with your fist up. 

You stopped as she began cackling, her voice shrieking and popping hollowly against your eardrums, her eyes alight with mockery and sadistic fun. She kept laughing and you lowered your fist. It wasn’t like you to be so angry and physical. It wasn’t like you to be so secretive and hurtful to Sam, either. What had you done?

Her laughing tapered off, replaced by more mockery. “Come on, hit me. I know you want to.”

You walked away. You had to before you snapped, before she truly got under your skin. She wasn’t going to break you this easily.

“Come back here! You’re no fun, come on!” She continued to taunt you until, finally, your silence bored her. 

It was boring you, too. You had prepared everything, you thought, except something to do while waiting. You thought of the phone in your pocket, the one line of communication to Sam turned off; dead to disable the GPS. You were being cruel, heartless. Sam had done nothing to deserve this, and now that you had done it again--left him without notice--you didn’t deserve him either. Turning on the phone, as you so badly wanted to do, would be a mistake. The signs of your betrayal would slap you in the face, seeing the missed calls and texts, and Sam and Dean could find you, making you face what you had done once more. You were in this too deep to call them. You were alone. There was no option to bring them in. At least, that’s what you told yourself. 

Thirty more minutes passed with nothingness, boring to the demon, but electric with expectancy for you. When the time for the next dose came, you were ready right at the second. Again, the demon did not fight you and this time she didn’t say anything, either. No mockery, no laughing. It was unsettling, more so than the vicious insults. You didn’t know what was happening to her. You didn’t know if it was working. But still, you carried on.

As the third and fourth hour rolled around, your demon became increasingly more limp. She was somber, really. Quiet less in a defiant way; more like she had little energy left to protest and nothing she wanted to say bad enough. You waited though, expecting her to lash out at any moment, but she didn’t. After the fourth dose, you thought about provoking her yourself to see how she had changed, if her eyes would still turn black, if her laughing was still bone-chilling. But you didn’t. You were too preoccupied with your own thoughts.

It was subtle and gradual, like a sunset, the way your body felt weaker and your guilt ran deeper. It wasn’t until halfway to the fifth dose that you really noticed it; the burning sensation in your arms and legs, barely there, tingling just under the skin; and the chest pain of heartache and regret, sharpening and twisting right under your sternum as thoughts of your family became louder and more frequent. It was just the blood loss, you were sure of it. The woozy, floor-tilting sensation was nothing more than a physical reaction to losing blood. And the guilt, that was the product of having nothing to do for four and a half hours but think about the reason you were doing this. 

You drank some water and ate a granola bar before preparing the fifth vial, the supplies not doing much to stave off the sickly feeling churning in your stomach. You felt cold, almost feverish; a sheen of sweat developing on your forehead as your eyelids drooped. But you would press on. You stuck the fifth needle in, pulled it out, and set it back on the table. That’s when something major shifted, both in you, the demon, and the stale air of the church. 

“Please, please, stop sticking me with that needle,” she whined, her voice faint and more human-like, riddled with physical exhaustion and emotion. “I can’t stop thinking about...about all the things I did, who I was, please...ple…”

You could barely hear her over the ringing in your ears, barely see her through your vision which had become blurry. You fell, catching yourself on a step and letting yourself relax into a sitting position to regain your bearings. As you sat, swaying whenever dizziness hit you, you suddenly understood what this demon was going through. You were both in similar positions, being purified as the ritual continued. Like her, you wanted the voices to stop, the ones in your head that had grown louder over time, that were now pounding from the inside of your eardrums, that you could no longer ignore, _guilty….guilty….GUILTY_ they chanted.

You couldn’t take it any longer. You had to relieve this pressure and shame. Crawling back up to the table, you scraped your knee across the edge of a step as you reached your hand over the top of the table to find your phone. Your fingers grazed the cool metal and you grasped it, yanking it down and turning it on with desperation. The bright screen burned your eyes, making you squint until it booted and showed your lock-screen photo: Sam, content as he sat on the couch, somewhat involuntarily posing as you had asked. Just one picture, was all you had wanted. Then the notifications began popping up. Four….eight….thirteen missed calls, at least that many texts, voicemails to match each call. You selected one and called back. The pick-up was almost instant. 

“Y/N!” His voice was loud, desperate. You pulled the phone away from your ear.

“Sam, I’m-”

“Where are you? Are you ok? Why did you run again?”

_Runaway...you’re just a runaway and that’s all you’ll ever be…_

“I’m sorry,” you gasped, “So, so sorry…”

You were delirious, your voice shook, and he no doubt heard it over the line. 

“Never mind that, just tell me where you are.” His voice was commanding, it woke you from your stupor. 

“A little church, Alma...Alma Missouri. I don’t know the address-”

“That’s fine. Y/N, babe, what vial are you on?”

“Six, I’ve got,” you stopped to think, “Three more to go.”

Sam’s voice shook even more than before. “Ok, ok we’re on our way. We’re coming, just put the vials down, ok? You don’t have to finish this,” You heard things moving in the background, Dean’s voice, car doors slamming, the engine rumbling, “Listen, if you finish this, you’re gonna- it’s going to kill you, baby. Please, just stop.”

“No, I-” The voices kept chanting _guilty…guilty...your fault…_ “I’ve got to go.”

“No! Y/N wait-”

You didn’t wait to hear the rest, taking the phone off your ear and turning it off again. You rubbed lazily at the sweaty dampness that had formed on your ear, suddenly remembering to check the time on your watch. It was close. In haste, you rose quickly, only to stumble forward into the table violently, knocking vials and things off. The demon’s laughter behind you was faint in your ears as you began picking up the mess. You had to pull yourself together. After this one, there was only two more to go and if you gave up now, you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself. 

You scrambled on your hands and knees, gathering the vials and leaving the other things. The food and water didn’t seem to be helping much. Your ailment was not physical, it was spiritual; a pain brought on by metaphysical purification manifesting physically, but with no cure but to finish. Had Sam said you would die? Never mind that. If he had, it didn’t matter. You had decided long ago you should’ve been the one to go before your time instead of her. 

As you approached the demon once again, your head swam with the images of the blood under your sister, soaking into the carpet so many years ago, and now, the blood in the vials, the shaking of your fingers and the limp rolling of the demon’s head. Side to side and hanging down and back to another side. You stabbed her in the neck again, mustering up the force. She grunted, the most substantial reaction yet, and then closed her eyes, squinting them tight then releasing, like a wave of silent pain had hit her and subsided. You walked away, resting on a step. You’d have to sit until the next dose or you might not make it. Spreading your knees apart, you rested your arms and head on them, closing your eyes and pretending you were on a pillow, on your bed, next to Sam even. You wouldn’t fall asleep, just rest your eyes. 

You woke up gradually, much like the burning pain that had been building underneath your skin. You didn’t notice it until you were on fire, the flames beginning in the capillaries and rising through the veins until they broke skin, raising the temperature of your body and producing a need for you to scream. But you didn’t. You winced, tensed your muscles, leaned back, riding the waves of pain. 

“Serves you right, bitch.” The woman, demon, whatever she was at this moment, spoke again. “God, I’m so glad you’re suffering. Do you have any idea what you’re putting me through? I’m old, so old...I’ve lost track, I’ve forgotten what this feels like, having actual emotions and I hate it!” Her words came out with spite, but you barely had the energy to care. You listened without response. “I’m not only remembering my human life, no,” she laughed, “I get to remember what I’ve done as demon with all these damn emotions attached! But you’re such a saint, ridding the world of demons, while no one cares what happens to me. What kind of life will I lead now? No one cares, no one ever cared about me!”

The woman broke into a fit of sobs. Usually, you’d try to comfort someone in her situation, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care enough with the weight of your own life hanging over your head. Your shoulders drooped with exhaustion and your vision blurred. Just two more vials to go, you could make it. Sam was on his way, you’d see him and Dean soon, reunite, share the victory, maybe a couple days later, after you’ve rested...maybe…

A couple hundred miles away, Dean was driving as fast as he could to Alma, Missouri. It was a five hour drive and when you called, you were three hours from finishing.

“She’s not going to stop.” Sam sat erect on the black leather of the Impala, his face in hard lines and his knuckles white from grasping the edge of the seat and his phone, waiting to see if you would call back. 

“We don’t know that.”

“You didn’t hear her voice, I did. She was totally out of it, delirious. I don’t know if she even understood me.”

“We’ll get there in time, ok? I can make it in three hours, I can.”

Sam shook his head, wanting to believe Dean, but not being able to. You had sounded so tired and when he asked you to stop, you avoided the question, hanging up, preparing for another vial. “This is all my fault. I should’ve talked to her more about it, made her feel supported.”

“Y/N’s a strong woman. She’ll make it. We’ll get there, she’ll be fine.”

Back at the church, you were anything but fine. You’d stuck the seventh dose of blood in, eliciting a small whimper from the woman. You’d call her a woman from now on. She was too far from a demon, the sticky black substance that she had been turned into gradually being burned away by your blood. You felt weaker than you ever had before. You knew you had just enough energy to give her the last dose, if the pain wasn’t too unbearable. It still came in waves, from somewhere deep inside, burning away blame, you imagined, purifying you gradually like the demon, a dose for her, a wave of fire for you. 

As the hour of the final dose came closer, you felt a sense of finality through the thick haze that had surrounded your brain. The light at the end of this tunnel was almost shining on your face; your guilt would be absolved, Sam’s life would be made easier, demons would be vanquished. You had no thought of whether your life would continue or not; your life was but a tiny speck in the grand scheme of things, a willingly given sacrifice for the sake of the world. To consider saving it now would be the paramount of selfishness, an even darker stain on your already blemished record. Sam would understand. He had done the same before.

If you had the energy, you would make the action a formal ceremony, with all the grandeur that closing the gates of hell deserved. Exuberant speeches and painstakingly slow movements to prepare the vials. Ritualistic additions to the process that were useless except to add flair and formality. An audience, even, to mark the day in history. But you had none of that. You had your dragging feet, your jeans long stained by the ancient dust, your failing limbs slowed with arthritic pain and the deep bruise in your elbow, tender to the touch. 

The woman was sleeping when you approached her for the final time, unaware of the impending assault. She gasped awake as you stuck the needle in for the eighth time, pushing the last of the blood into her veins. Her eyes were wide, watching you take the needle out, chest heaving with deep breaths and exerted energy as you awaited some shift, some sign in the woman or in the air that your sacrifice had changed something. You saw nothing, felt nothing. Instead, you fell. Crashing onto the floor, floating into darkness, aware of absolutely nothing. 

Sam and Dean came running in twenty minutes later, out of breath and stopping just inside the door to let their minds catch up to the scene before them. The woman sat, crying, still bound to the chair, pleading with no one to let her go. You lie on the ground at her feet, face on the floor, the vial inches from your limp fingertips. Sam ran to you, dropping at your side and flipping you over. He shook his head, whispering his denial as he moved the hair from your face and took in the state of your body. There was a faint pulse underneath your dirty skin; he felt it as one of his hands held your neck. Your skin was sallow, there were purple circles under your eyes. He could feel the lack of energy in your muscles, the way they had gradually and eventually given out. He was right. You hadn’t stopped.

He pulled you onto his lap, continuing to whisper your name until he became enraged and allowed his voice to rise and his hands to shake you. It only stirred you, it didn’t bring you to full consciousness as he had hoped. 

“Dean, help me take her out. She needs a hospital, something,” Sam ordered.

Dean had been untying the woman and noticing that she had no trace of demon left in her. But when he looked at you, he knew whatever trace of life you had was slowly seeping out. You wouldn’t make it anywhere. “Sam, she’s-”

“No! I told her to stop, I told her we’d figure it out. She’ll be fine, you said she’d be fine!”

Your eyes fluttered open briefly, seeing a fuzzy outline of the man you loved hanging over your face. “Sam.” You tried to lift your hand to touch his face, but he grabbed it and held it down tight, shushing you. “I did it.”

You felt something warm and wet hit your cheek, a tear maybe, sliding down the side of your face. It wasn’t your own. 

“You...you did, baby, you did it,” he whispered.

With those words, you contentedly let yourself go. You imagined you were drifting off to sleep while lying in Sam’s lap, as you had done many times before, lying on the couch together, or in the back seat of the Impala, or in bed.


	12. The Bedset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean deal with the aftermath of the trials.

You stood before rows and rows of plush comforters and bed sets, stacked so high the shelves seemed to touch the ceiling. Sam’s hand was in yours, gently caressing the back of your palm as you both scanned the choices, up and down, left and right. The fluorescent light was harsh on your eyes and unforgiving to your skin, you imagined, but Sam still gazed at you like you were perfection. He always did that, even before, but this gaze was more intense, tainted with a shade of desperation and clinging. 

“There’s too many choices. I can’t...” he said.

“I know. Maybe we should just go someplace….smaller,” you sighed.

“No, no. This is Bed, Bath, and Beyond, the civilian’s official home store,” he said, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand, “If we’re going to get a bedset, we might as well do it right.”

“Yeah, it’s not like we get the chance to do this much, or at all.”

You looked at each other, sharing warm smiles and a silent thought: Shopping was tougher than you expected. 

You released Sam’s hand suddenly, spotting something that might work in the bedroom. The comforter was warm brown and the sheets cream-colored. Paired with matching brown pillow cases and a two reddish-brown accent pillows, it was perfect for your bedroom. It would match the bunker’s colors; it was simple, yet beautiful; and it would be all yours.

“This one,” you said, pointing and then picking up the clear plastic package. “Yeah?”

You looked to see Sam’s reaction. He would probably be fine with any set, he wasn’t picky, but for whatever reason your choice had him beaming.

He put an arm around your shoulder. “It’s great.”

Sam couldn’t be absent from contact with you for more than a few moments. He would intertwine your fingers, place a hand on your shoulder, or sit so close to you that your arms and knees were bumping. You didn’t mind. You appreciated the closeness, especially after all you’d been through. This was Sam’s way of making sure you were still there, solid and real, permanent. Dean was better about it now. At first, he’d been the same way, always watching where you went, barely letting you shower or pee without standing watch outside the door, both of them always right there when you turned a corner. But Dean had settled down by now, two weeks later. Sam was still on edge and in awe. You couldn’t blame him for being this way, though.

You had died.

You don’t remember much of the experience, only the moments before; the overwhelming sense of weakness flowing down from your head to your toes; your head resting on Sam’s lap. Later, after you had returned from beyond the veil, Sam and Dean asked if you went to heaven, but you didn’t know. There was falling asleep on the church floor and waking up in an empty bedroom. Everything in between was nothingness. But this is what you did know.

Sam and Dean did not get to the church in time. Even if they had arrived sooner, it wouldn’t have mattered. Once you hit the halfway mark on the vials, your chances of survival, even if you had quit, were slim. Crowley was nowhere to be seen. He popped out of the bunker as soon as the Winchesters unlocked his shackles, quickly spouting off some explanation as to why he needed to get back to Hell. Sam thought he was attempting to amass a small demon army, gathering and leading them to where ever you were, but he never found you. His decision to not help the Winchesters ended up proving fatal to him, not that it bothered you much. You had planned on him not finding you. You were careful to set up wardings. 

Sam and Dean were instantly crushed with the weight of your death, the sorrow burrowing quickly into their bones and debilitating them. They almost couldn’t carry you out. Dean said he had taken the cured woman to the car, came back in, and Sam was still sitting in the same position, holding you. Silent. Dean wasn’t sure how he was up and moving, keeping things going. Inside he felt like Sam, but something, maybe denial, was pushing him to take action. It took Dean a long time to convince Sam to carry you out. He wouldn’t let Dean lift you, wanting to be the only one touching you. He cradled you to his chest, tucking your limp arms into the space between you and him, walking stiffly as single tears slipped out of his eyes. He sat with you in the back seat while Dean drove to the hospital where they dropped the woman off, trusting she could take care of herself. Then they drove back to the bunker.

Sam laid you gently atop your previous bed, the one you slept in before moving in with him; a room that was cold and empty as he placed you on top of the sheets. It was then, the moment he looked over your still figure--dirty, broken, and lifeless--that he broke down. He collapsed, caught between wanting to look at you and not being able to bear the sight of your dead body. It was all too much. The back and forth of losing you only to get you back only to lose you again, this time permanently. He had so many regrets, so many things he blamed himself for. Not paying enough attention to you. Not forcing you to talk about your sister more. Not showing you how much he loved you and what a wonderful person you were. And most of all, for not being there the moments you needed him most.

He would have drunk himself into a continual stupor if Dean hadn’t pulled him off that floor and into a tight embrace, and then continued to pull him along as they figured out funeral arrangements. A hunter’s funeral seemed most appropriate. Sam would’ve preferred a private one, a chance to reflect on his fleeting time with you, to ask you for forgiveness, but he couldn’t be selfish. Other people had known you and you had touched their lives. You were worthy of a funeral that celebrated your accomplishments. The gates of hell were closed. Demons were gone. If Sam and Dean contacted them, all hunters would’ve gladly came and paid their respects to you.

It was funny how Sam couldn’t really care that suddenly all demons had vanished from earth. It was a lot to take in, a massive shift in the balance of good and evil to process. There would still be werewolves, and vampires, and ghosts. Vetalas and ghouls. But a huge chunk of the reason hunters fought, the reason the Winchesters had begun fighting, was eliminated. The world seemed quieter and more at peace, like the morning smog had cleared for good, the root of all pollutants purged from the air. But Sam felt this quietness deeper within, more strongly than the the first time you were missing from his life. He couldn’t hear your voice or the scratching of your pen against paper or your movements in the kitchen while you baked. He had never gotten used to that silence and now he had no hope to hear these things again. He had to learn to live without them.

Dean carried out most of the funeral plans, calling the guests and making sure they would have a place to sleep. Sam could help with some of it. He called Jody. Dean called Garth, Donna, and others. You had met them briefly while working with Sam. Dean had to build the pyre. He thought about asking Sam for help, but then he thought there was no way Sam could chop the wood that you would burn on, no way he could place the pieces together to make the structure. It was better if Sam did easier things. Dean was trying not to send him over the edge. 

It happened five days later, a day before the guests were to arrive. Dean was in the kitchen making dinner that mostly he would eat. Sam hadn’t been eating much and Dean couldn’t blame him, but he still attempted to get food into Sam, mothering him like always. Dean kept things going, the days passing in surreal time, like a nightmare he might wake up from. As he thought about the funeral tomorrow, while cutting tomatoes, he realized reality would probably hit him during the procession. He would see your body, wrapped in a white sheet, as he and Sam carried you out and placed you on the pyre. The faces of your friends would be watching with wet eyes and solemn faces. Hunters would show their gratitude and place items that were special to you on the pyre, a tradition of hunters so that your spirit couldn’t attach to any of the objects. It would be like you to come back as a ghost, just to know what it was like, to get firsthand research on the experience. You had called yourself the ghost hunting specialist when they first met you. Becoming a ghost would really solidify that title.

Sam was sitting in the library when it happened, slouching in a chair, a glass of whiskey in his fingers as his hand rested on the table. He looked around at the shelves, many of them with empty spaces. They hadn’t yet cleaned up all the books from their search. He looked over each of the spaces, mentally cataloguing which books belonged where, remembering how you had fussed over the mess when you returned. What he would give to have you fuss at him one more time, to make him clean up his laundry or take his dirty shoes to the garage. He’d even tolerate Dean giving him the “I told you so” look. He remembered your studying in the library, too, the countless hours you had spent pouring over the knowledge of the Men of Letters. There was so much you hadn’t known when you first came to them, but now your fingers had touched nearly every book and your eyes had roamed over almost every page. He remembered when you first learned about Djinn, how you were amazed at the descriptions of black tattoos and blue, glowing eyes. He remembered when you learned of Rakshasa and shuddered as you imagined the clown-like figure coming after children and their parents. He felt deep regret remembering these things. He was the reason you had delved so deep into the lore, the reason you had access to information about the trials.

Those were the things each Winchester brother was doing and thinking of while you lay in bed, unaware even of yourself. Unaware that you had indeed woken up. The sensation was not at all like waking up in the morning. It was much heavier and more difficult, like stones were lying atop your eyes and you had to peel them off slowly before you were able to even flutter your eyelids. You first became aware of sounds and smells; the hum of an ancient radiator, the musty sheets, your heart beating again. Then you tried opening your eyes, unsticking your eyelashes from one another. The room was dark, only a small amount of light coming in from under the doorway. It was cold and the air stale. It took you a moment, to think about what all this meant, the sudden ability to hear and see and smell and move. Your toes twitched and your nose wrinkled. 

You were alive.

The first thing you moved was your head and arms as you sat up cautiously and looked around. You felt as you imagined you would after not moving for hours, or days, however long you’d been out. When you sat up, you noticed a small piece of paper curiously lying on your stomach, folded in half. You picked it up and opened it, finding a message written on the inside. The message was confusing, but it sounded important. That’s when you moved your legs, pulling your knees up to your stomach and then swinging them over the edge of the bed. The stretch of your leg and arm muscles felt so good. Your toes hit the cold floor and you stood up. You didn’t shake or sway. You felt strong, much stronger than you remembered feeling before you died. So you walked, out the bedroom door, down the winding halls, and into the library where Sam sat, his back to you and his attention elsewhere.

“Sam,” you croaked, your voice out of use and your throat dry.

His head snapped around, eyes going wide at your standing in the doorway. His chair flew back, legs scraping against the hard floors, as he stood and patted himself for his gun. He didn’t find it. He hadn’t been carrying one while he mourned in his home.

“Dean!” he shouted, keeping his eyes on what he thought was a nasty trick, “Come here, now!”

“It’s me, Sam,” you said, your voice stronger than before, more normal sounding.

Dean came running in, abruptly halting when he saw you. Then his face fell. “Sam, what did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything. She, it, just walked in here.” Sam’s voice shook, He was trying so hard not to break down, you could see it all over him. You had been gone longer than you thought, too long. You had to remedy this somehow, convince him of your realness. You thought of the note.

“There was a note,” you said, “When I woke up. Here.” You held out your hand, the note sitting on your open palm.

Sam and Dean looked at each other, Sam letting Dean know that he couldn’t, not now. Dean had to be the one to approach you. What if Sam’s hand brushed up against this trick and he felt the skin of the imposter, and it felt like you? Dean conceded. He still kept a gun on him and he had it drawn, but not too menacing; he wasn’t as doubtful as Sam. He picked the paper up with two fingers, careful not to touch you. You dropped your arm as he opened and read it, his eyes going wide, wider than when he first saw you.

“You need to read this,” he said, turning to Sam.

He held it out, passing it off once again, waiting for Sam to take it. There was a brief moment of defiance; Sam didn’t want to take it. It was bait, he was sure. But he took it anyway and read the words quickly, then slowly once more so he knew his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. It was almost too good to be true. There in his fingers, was a small, unbelievable note that read _The man who saved the world should be with the woman who did the same. -G_

Sam looked at you, then at Dean, then at the note, then at Dean again. Dean answered a silent question by nodding his head. Then Sam looked at you again. 

“I don’t understand,” he said. 

You smiled. That was typical of him, to want to understand everything, analyzing even in the most emotional of moments. “Sam, for once, let’s just figure this out later.”

Something in him clicked and he reached you in two strides. His arms were under yours, wrapped around you and lifting your feet until you were on your tiptoes. You could do nothing but return the embrace, tightening your arms around his neck, both of you holding each other as close as you could, the air in your lungs being forced out by his arms. He pulled back, taking his hands to your face, rubbing his thumbs across your cheeks, staring in awe. You had come back. There was no catch, no strings attached or contracts to honor. Your life was a gift given willingly. 

It was too late to call off the funeral, many of the guests had already begun their drive to Kansas. The event would have to be a party instead, a surprise for the guests honoring your accomplishment and celebrating your life. The next two days were a whirlwind of wide eyes and suffocating hugs, unanswerable questions and thanks given to you for your sacrifice. There were some teary eyes when thinking of what could’ve happened, but mostly there were happy smiles and toasts made to you. The running joke was that you had officially become a Winchester now. You had died and come back to life. It was more official than marriage. 

You were thankful for the support and company of friends, but when they left and the bunker was quiet again, the ache that had lingered during the celebration grew and all you wanted was to be with Sam. He felt the same, too, hugging you tight to his side as you waved goodbye to the last guests and then not letting go when you were alone again. There was lost time to make up for and too many missed moments to reclaim. 

Sam and Dean kept a watchful eye for days, acting as your personal secret service agents, flanking your front and back wherever you went. Then Dean relaxed about a week later, convinced that whatever had happened to you was permanent and no demons were left over to attack. Sam was less convinced, or more affected by your loss, and didn’t want to go a moment without seeing you. He did relax some, allowing you to at least pee and shower with the door completely closed. Then he began to actually enjoy your time together. You baked a dessert for the first time in months. You cleaned the bunker. You established a somewhat normal routine again. And then you had the idea for the bedset. You and Sam talked about it ages ago, but never went through with it, and now it was more important to you than ever. 

You bought the brown comforter and returned to the bunker, stripping the bed of its old sheets and making it again with the new ones. Sam stood and watched as you arranged the pillows just so. He knew nothing of homemaking and let you perfect the setup until you had it the way you wanted. Then you stepped back, looking over the room. The pictures were hanging on the wall, the pile of clothes had been put away, your drawer was cleaned up and shut, and your bed neat and without wrinkles. Sam took your hand in his and you smiled at each other. You didn’t exchange any words, only a look that communicated what you both felt to be true. Everything was as it should be.


End file.
